


The Ice of Angels' Tears

by Carradee



Series: Feathers on the Sand [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Character, Child Abuse, Force-Sensitive Padmé Amidala, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Padmé's POV, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slavery, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 77,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8426782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carradee/pseuds/Carradee
Summary: When Padmé Amidala was eight years old and entering politics, her grandmother put blocks on her memory. It was meant to protect her. Instead, a Sith destroyed the Republic.Only after she died did she remember what her grandmother had done, that it was all fixable, and she demanded that she be sent back. She'd meant her body, which mainly had a repairable-but-broken hyoid bone and was right there.Instead, her grandmother sent her back in time…to before the memory blocks had ever been put in place. She's a twenty-seven-year-old woman in her eight-year-old body.And this time, when Palpatine and the Jedi show up and start tugging at her Force abilities? She's going to know what she's doing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DAsObiQuiet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAsObiQuiet/gifts).



> This builds upon _The Lack of Angels' Wings_. You could probably start with this one and keep up, but you'll be missing some details.
> 
> However, here's all you _really_ need to know to start with this story:
> 
> * * *
> 
> Padmé opened her eyes, disconcerted by how gummy they felt and by the fact that she had to open them at all. She rubbed at her face and paused, staring at her hands—too small; why were they so small?—and the flesh of her left middle finger.
> 
> She’d had a scar there, tiny and visible only up close and when the light hit it right, from an assassination attempt a few months after the Battle of Theed. The attacker had been one of the few Naboo too disgusted by the Gungans to realize that her people’s prejudice had been that—prejudice—and didn’t belong in their hearts.
> 
> That scar was missing.

Padmé Naberrie kept running her left thumb over the fingers of her hand, unable to resist feeling the skin that would be scarred before her fifteenth birthday but was currently clear, since she was eight. She would need to break herself of that tic before she became queen.

Her precognition didn’t come in the form of visions, but even if it did, what she’d experienced had been no vision. Had she any doubts of that, the reactions of her mother and grandmother would’ve set them to rest.

The morning she awoke at twenty-seven years old in her eight-year-old body, Padmé came down for breakfast and was greeted by her mother. Nana Naberrie showed up to take Padmé for the weekend. Padmé, recognizing the trip as likely when the blocks had been put on her memory, politely but firmly refused to go.

Padmé’s sister, Sola, expressed confusion and concern, for they both loved Nana. (Though Sola wasn’t Force-sensitive enough to be taught the secrets that Padmé knew, about the Houses of Naboo.)

Their mother, Jobal Naberrie, gave her a long look. “It’s for your safety, Padmé.”

“It destroys the Republic,” Padmé answered.

Her mother had dropped the topic.

Nana Naberrie approached Padmé in private and told her outright that she _needed_ the memory blocks, for there was a Sith meddling in Naboo’s affairs and Padmé would surely meet him.

“I know,” Padmé told her. “He killed me.”

And Nana _accepted_ that.

Life went on. Her mother ignored the signals that she was no longer the age of her body—well, not so much ignored as overlooked, and she quietly alerted Padmé of actions that were inappropriate or incongruous, such as eyeing Palo, her onetime first crush, before she’d started puberty.

Padmé wasn’t sure precisely how much her father knew. He’d always treated her as an intelligent being worth respect, so their relationship continued as it always had, essentially unchanged except for the extra knowledge and maturity she brought to them.

Her relationship with Sola, though, gained distance that hadn’t existed when she’d been the little sister in truth rather than only in body. Padmé still knew Sola—knew her dreams and goals and plans even before Sola did—but only because she remembered them from before, not because Sola confided in her.

Her relationship with her sister was the first casualty of her metaphysical rebirth. A price she was more than willing to pay, if only all this _worked_.

Time that Padmé had previously spent hanging out with Sola or boyfriends or companions who’d ultimately not affected her life, she spent with her Nana, who taught Padmé so much more of the Force than she’d known before. Some of what Nana taught her felt familiar, things she’d felt before from the Jedi she’d known.

“I thought we didn’t like Jedi?” she asked.

Nana shook her head as she worked her loom. “It’s not that we don’t like them,” she said. “It’s that they don’t like us.”

“Yoda liked me,” Padmé admitted.

Nana accepted that knowledge of her first life without even the slightest of hesitations as she wove. “Yoda’s special.”

She studied her grandmother and considered both what the woman said and what she _didn’t_ say. “You’ve resurrected yourself before?”

Nana didn’t answer…which, Padmé knew, was an answer in itself.

* * *

Palpatine was devious and patient—and he had been willing to wait ten years to re-maneuver things after Padmé thwarted the Trade Federation’s invasion of Naboo.

That knowledge made her decide to follow the same path she had, last time, for saving the Republic was going to require uncovering him as a Sith in time to save her husband. She wouldn’t be able to do that if he redeveloped everything into something she wouldn’t recognize and therefore couldn’t prevent.

As long as she knew what he was doing, she could maneuver the fractures of the Republic and Confederacy and Anakin and… _everything_ , really, and pin it together in just the right spots to keep Palpatine’s Empire from snapping into place, so the very actions that had previously culminated his efforts would end up sabotaging his endgame.

She even had a brilliantly simple idea to destroy how Palpatine undermined Anakin’s trust in the Jedi Order. It would carry some risk—it was early enough in the timeline that Palpatine might maneuver around it—but he would never see it coming. And she hoped to out him as a Sith and oust him from the Senate before…

Before the day her children were born and she died.

_I won’t die, this time,_ she insisted to herself as she relived her experiences in the Legislative Youth Program, being sure to repeat her old mistakes (or what she remembered of them) so Palpatine didn’t notice her too early and modify his plans to something that didn’t assume she was young and naïve. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan weren’t _ready_ to face even the Sith Apprentice, and any change to even the Battle of Theed could end up with the death of the wrong Jedi. Or herself.

So for the time being, she had to repeat her old life…while also learning how to immerse her mind in the Force, with shells and layers so her secrets were both protected and _buried_ , while leaving enough surface areas that Jedi and Sith alike would see nothing more than they had, last time.

Between the memory blocks and her lack of training, the shielding had come naturally, in her first life. It was harder now. Having an adult’s calm and self-awareness helped her regain it, but intentional immersion in the Force was different than usage borne of instinct. Nana sometimes spoke of the Force as a “current”, like a river, and that imagery helped. Padmé had always understood water.

She also practiced listening to the Force and others—something she’d sometimes done on accident, last time—and realized that the immersion and the listening could be modified to make people see what she wanted them to. (That last one would be useful during the war, to keep Anakin from panicking and overreacting when she cut her scalp.)

Such illusions would be harder to learn, since she’d never done them Before, but surely she could get a handle on them before she was elected senator.

(An illusion would be useful when Siri died again, too, to make Obi-Wan’s anger show long enough for Anakin to recognize it. She’d rather Siri not die, though—Obi-Wan deserved to have someone he loved _not_ end up murdered and dead in his arms. Maybe she could learn telekinesis and nudge the jump enough to keep the bounty hunter’s shot from ending up lethal? She needed to think about that.)

She was going to have to be incredibly careful to not use any of her Force abilities when Palpatine or his spies were watching, but she found herself often getting caught up in the repetition of her old life and forgetting she even _could_ do such things, until she was alone. That was a good habit to have, so she didn’t even try to recondition herself.

The downside to her plan was she didn’t remember everything she ever did. She remembered more than was normal. It was a family gift or curse, depending on what she was remembering—Mustafar had _hurt_ , never mind giving birth and being murdered—but she had always ever served her people as _herself_ , so she acted out of what she’d remembered herself to be at eight years old, when she still believed in the Republic and in people’s willingness to be good and decent and love democracy.

Before she’d seen how easily greed and fear could be manipulated to destroy liberty and murder good people.

She remembered what that idealism had _felt_ like—that hope, that joy—so she focused on those feelings, for her people had loved her for her _sincerity_ , and if she lost that, she’d lose everything. Without political clout, she might as well hand Palpatine the Republic, herself.

(No. If it came to that, she’d find her way to Coruscant and camp out on the Temple steps until somebody took her to Yoda. She’d even show him her memories. Let him dismiss _that_ as an unreliable vision!)

Sincerity was frighteningly easy to fake.

* * *

Padmé’s career progressed essentially as she’d remembered it, including the election to replace King Veruna, so she didn’t think she’d messed up anything significant.

The past six years had been the easy part.

She made a batch of Nana’s favorite cookies for what had been her last visit, Before.

Nana looked at the gift, looked at her. “The Sith will notice me if I live. Notice _you_.”

“Perhaps,” Padmé answered. “He _will_ investigate my past, once he notices me.”

Her grandmother took a cookie. “Then it is better that I die again.”

“‘Again’ in your experience or in mine?” she asked.

Nana smiled in answer, and they ate a few cookies in peace.

Padmé got up, made caff for them both, and decided to embrace this last meeting with her grandmother before the woman let herself die (and she understood, now, why she’d sometimes thought of it that way).

She set down the mugs, Nana’s doctored just the way she liked it, and reminded herself that her grandmother knew she was older than her body.

“The Sith Master is Chan—” Padmé drew a breath. He wasn’t chancellor yet, though he soon would be. “Senator Palpatine.”

Nana calmly sipped the caff and nibbled a cookie.

“You knew that.”

So that was why Nana had experienced her own resurrection.

The woman let the silence linger for nearly a minute, then said quietly, “If I live, you don’t reach your twenty-first birthday.”

“After you put the blocks on my mind six years ago, I didn’t reach twenty-eight. The Sith Master…” _How to summarize this?_ “He destroyed the Republic, the Jedi, and my husband.”

Nana gave her a sidelong look. “And you, it sounds like.”

Padmé swallowed and decided not to mention the twins. She didn’t want to leave the woman anticipating grandchildren who might never come to be. “I have a plan for how to stop him, but it means I’m going to have to let a lot of people die. Anakin may never forgive that, when he finds out.”

With his strength in the Force, he would doubtless get some odd feelings or visions about her, though that wouldn’t be enough to dissuade him from his fondness for her.

She _would_ tell him her true age…after Palpatine was eliminated.

Her throat tightened with the memory of how he’d reacted to perceived betrayal, on Mustafar. Even if she succeeded, and Anakin stayed a Jedi…her action—or rather, inaction—would strike him as hypocrisy and duplicity. The man she’d known wouldn’t take that well.

“Anakin,” Nana said thoughtfully. “Skywalker. The boy who blows up the droid control ship.”

That situation must have gone comparably in Nana’s original timeline. “Did Master Qui-Gon die then, too?”

Her grandmother considered her words. “Yes.”

She was studying her, evaluating her.

Padmé put down her caff. “Nana?”

The woman sighed and put down her own snack. “Come.”

She led Padmé into her room, to a chest at the end of her bed. “Open it.”

Padmé did so and saw only the bed linens that would be expected in such a chest—but that didn’t fit her grandmother’s actions nor anxiety, so she listened to the Force and compared what she sensed against what she saw.

The bottom part of the chest, about as tall as her palm was wide, was muffled in the Force. She found the false bottom quickly and withdrew the tray.

_Holocrons?_ she wondered, for she’d only heard of them in stories and had never actually seen one, and here were three: a sphere, an octahedron, and a pyramid. She thought the pyramid was a Sith design, though, and she looked up at her grandmother with puzzled eyes.

Nana’s smile was bittersweet, and she ran her fingers over the octahedron of the lot. “Ruwee should get these, but… You need the lessons. The sphere’s keeper will teach you how to tie an illusion to a solid object, so you can adjust a box to keep them in. Don’t let Jedi or Sith know you have them. And pass them on to Ruwee before you have any Jedi or Sith as regular visitors in your life.”

Padmé reached towards the pyramid, cold nipping her fingers.

Nana caught her hand. “Be _careful_ with that one.”

She froze. “This _is_ a Sith holocron.”

“Yes.” Her grandmother pointed to the sphere, the pyramid, and the octahedron in turn. “Jedi, Sith, neither. Some Sith holocrons are tied to the creators’ tombs.”

Padmé recoiled, her stomach churning. “If I turn that one on, I’ll be actually speaking to Darth…whoever it is?”

“Possibly. I haven’t dared mess with it, after my sister told me about that.” Nana rubbed the octahedron again. “This one is… I suppose we can call it the family’s. My sister added about a thousand years of Jedi law and politics before she ran off to Lucazec. I added the genealogies for all the houses of Naboo, with midichlorian counts and Force talents.”

That sounded valuable for the Jedi archives, Padmé thought. The Order’s eschewal of relationships meant they had no real data on the patterns in Force ability and inheritance. She’d have to make a copy the holocron for the Jedi, once Palpatine was eliminated.

Nana gave her a sharp look. “The Jedi don’t know the origin of the Naboo for good reason, Padmé.”

“Most of _the Naboo_ don’t know the noble houses came from Force-sensitives who were tired of being discriminated against after all the Sith wars,” she answered. Considering her people’s focus on honoring the past, that ignorance was likely a good thing. Her people needed to stay in the Republic, not secede from it. “And I understand why you don’t wish it to be common knowledge—but it won’t be. The Jedi Council knows all Korunnai are Force-sensitive, yet it doesn’t take their children.”

“Their current Master of the Order proves that false, Padmé.”

“Master Windu was an orphan and taken with permission. If his people had refused, the Order would have allowed that.”

Surprise showed clearly on Nana’s face. “You knew him?”

Padmé smiled sadly. “He saved my life.” She reconsidered the statement. “A lot of Jedi did. A lot of Jedi died for me, too.” Like Siri. She _really_ hoped she could keep Siri from dying again.

She tried not to think about how she was probably going to have to let the first battle of Geonosis and the Clone Wars happen like Before. The knowledge made her feel ill. She would probably be able to outmaneuver Palpatine’s plans for a few individuals, but for planets and peoples as a whole? She couldn’t. Not without cuing him in that he needed to change his plans.

She could not afford to let him change his plans.

Padmé focused on the holocrons, on the disquiet she felt at the knowledge that her father had possessed these in her first life. “Telekinesis or healing?” she asked. “Which tends to run in the family?”

“Neither,” Nana answered. “Physical influence isn’t our skill set, and you will find it difficult to perform either, even if you learn them.” She paused. “Leave the healing and telekinesis for your Jedi friends. You would have a far easier time learning to influence others’ perceptions.”

_Like Palpatine does._ Padmé grimaced. The skillset made sense, considering the Naboo Houses had been outright founded by folks with such abilities that Jedi traditionally were leery of.

But wouldn’t it be good to learn how to adjust others’ minds, if only to be able to identify whatever Palpatine did to Anakin? Maybe to even sabotage it?

Her stomach churned. If she learned this, there would be temptation to use it—and it would be all too easy to slip into the shades of gray of using it for her own convenience rather than out of necessity for the good of others. Master Qui-Gon had certainly been casual about using Force Suggestion on the various beings he’d encountered while assigned to protect her.

Padmé wondered why he’d never tried to use a Jedi mind trick on _her_.

She looked at the holocrons and then at her grandmother. “Will you show me how to access them?”

One last lesson from Nana. One last conversation.

Padmé had missed her, the first time. With her unique situation that she couldn’t talk about with anyone else, it would be worse, this time.

She wouldn’t be able to lean on Sola. They were already too distant for that.

Padmé felt sadness for the relationship she could have had with her sister…but now never actually would.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she ignored them while her grandmother walked her through how to access all three holocrons.

Padmé didn’t ask how much her parents knew. She wasn’t going to given them reason to be targeted by a Sith Master.

* * *

Padmé had remembered the blockade and invasion as something that had happened at the start of her reign. She’d forgotten how both had been preceded by a few months’ disbelief and distrust, caution and condescension. Governor Sio Bibble had supported her, as had Captain Panaka, but many had underestimated her, seeing her reputed proficiency as an artificial construct, built by her advisors.

There had been _reason_ Palpatine underestimated her, had believed her easy to puppet. At least by the time she entered the Senate, most people already knew she was both honest and competent. That was why they kept trying to kill her.

The morning before the blockade dawned so bright and clear, it had reminded her of her parents’ farm, in her last life, and of helping convince the shaaks to behave. She’d been distracted that morning, uneasy and…

She’d absentmindedly confronted one of her ministers with specific examples of having accepted bribes—taken from the top of his thoughts.

Padmé stared out one of the windows that overlooked Theed. She’d dreamed it all last night, what had happened Before. Was it the Force, reminding her of her past life so she could decide what to do, or was it Palpatine, somehow aware of what she was and seeking to manipulate her? Surely some of Anakin’s visions had been Palpatine’s doing, steering her husband into self-destruction.

Nana was dead, so she hadn’t been the one to hide the memory of plucking information from the minister’s thoughts. Padmé must have done it to herself, in her discomfort and fear at the incident. She was no Jedi, and in the first timeline, she hadn’t even remembered that she was Force-sensitive.

Small wonder it would be so many years before she trusted her instincts enough to believe them, to voice them, to outright tell the Jedi she believed Dooku was the one trying to kill her.

In _this_ timeline, she was back to that morning when she’d confronted that corrupt minister in her council. The meeting where she’d done that was to happen shortly, and the datapad in her hands held the examples that she’d previously voiced without the evidence in hand to support it. Should she use the datapad, changing how she’d brought the minister’s crimes to light, or repeat how she’d done it last time?

Did she even trust herself to read only those surface thoughts, as she had unconsciously done before, and not try to push deeper? The minister could have ties to Palpatine, ties that would provide her evidence against him. Or he might not, and merely be a man corrupted by his own pursuit of gain. Either way, pressing into a mind risked leaving traces for the Sith Master to find.

She would be changing enough details, most of which would add to her risk. Avoiding this particular situation would give Palpatine one less opportunity to realize the threat she was to his plans.

Captain Panaka stepped up to her side. “Your Highness,” he said. “The ministers are assembled.”

Padmé walked sedately towards the throne room…and handed Panaka the datapad at the door.

Her first intentional change to her career.

* * *

The naïve trust of her advisors—trust that the Republic Senate would end the Trade Federation blockade—saddened Padmé, and not only because she knew how it all would end. The Naboo had done nothing in their defense during the blockade because they’d believed it wasn’t their place to do anything.

Even she had clung desperately to the desire for a diplomatic resolution, until the invasion made clear that diplomacy had never been an option.

In her first life, Padmé had handled the situation as well as she could, all things considered, but there was one factor that she’d failed to account for in her inexperience. She was afraid to fix that oversight.

_Evidence can always be lost,_ she reminded herself. _I don’t have to use it._

Anakin was going to hate her, when all was said and done.

Sitting alone in an auxiliary control room for the planetary communication satellites, Padmé lifted her chin and didn’t let herself cry. The Apprentice Legislature hadn’t taught her how to slip away from guards in the middle of the night, nor how to find the root programming that planetary satellites were manufactured with, before they were adjusted for their owners. Fortunately—or unfortunately—she’d had a Jedi husband and other friends who’d taught her such things, in the years before she died.

Padmé spent the week before the invasion adding small, secure partitions in the satellites, for them to record and store the proof that the Naboo had failed to have about the Trade Federation blockade. She reluctantly did the same to the memories of some security cameras inside the palace, scattering them throughout the building to hide that she knew precisely which few would catch Gunray’s threats.

After the Battle of Theed, she’d copy the evidence and reset the satellites—which would be scrapped and replaced by the end of the year, anyway, because her people wanted multipurpose satellites for planetary defense and hadn’t known it was possible to reprogram the ones they had.

_Or maybe we could start scrapping, enough to get rid of the problem satellites, then ‘discover’ the possibility? More funds would be spectacular._

The interior cameras wouldn’t be entirely erasable, unfortunately.

_So maybe I should just steer a conversation so Anakin or Obi-Wan notice that the satellites are programmable, so we don’t spend that money at all._

When the Trade Federation blustered that she had no proof against them, she would be able to prove their words false—if she chose to do so. As despicable as she found them, they had a significant part to play in the development of the Clone Wars.

Interfering with the Trade Federation could cause more damage than it resolved…or it might prevent more damage than it caused. Padmé was going to have to mull on that.

She hoped that, in seeking to destroy Palpatine, she wasn’t going to end up replacing him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next few days would reveal if she’d learned enough to survive the scrutiny of Jedi and Sith both, and if her twenty-five collective years in politics were sufficient practice to allow her to outmaneuver Darth Sideous in his own game board.
> 
> By the time the war came, she was going to already be _exhausted_.

The morning that the blockade would be replaced by invasion, Padmé woke up in the wee hours of dawn, her pulse racing. Nobody had come running or sought to wake her, so she hadn’t screamed.

Not that her nightmares _had_ ever made her scream…yet. She was sure they would, eventually.

Some of the turning points had happened on days after Anakin had spent the night. How would these dreams affect their relationship? What would he think of them? Would he believe she suffered visions?

 _You mean you don’t?_ she thought wryly. She _had_ known things, even in her first life. She still didn’t know if that had been telepathy or precognition, even after some months of studying the holocrons that Nana had given to her keeping.

_The holocrons!_

Last time, her time as queen had passed without Jedi interference or visits, but was _except_ for what was in the week to come. Before the week was out, she was going to be hosting several Jedi (including several Councilors) and a Sith Master. And then Gunray had hosted the Sith Apprentice—she’d forgotten about that.

She couldn’t leave the holocrons in the palace for a Sith or Jedi to find.

Nana had said they belonged with her father, so Padmé had to assume that he had kept them hidden, Before.

She slipped out of bed and thought through the morning. “Yané!” She grabbed the small box she’d clumsily shielded with the Force—she didn’t trust her own work, since she was new to it—and gave it to the handmaiden, who was still waking up. “Deliver this to my father for safekeeping before you dress for the morning.”

“Your Highness? Is something the matter?”

Padmé took care with her words. “It was my grandmother’s. It occurs to me that my father would find it reassuring in our current trial.”

Hiding the truth in truth, just as Palpatine did.

She would have to be sure to arrange evidence, before the end, to be found by anyone arranging her funeral. Nothing to give anyone blackmail material if it came out early, and nothing to damage her political legacy and allies…but something that would excuse Anakin if he killed her again for her betrayal.

A desperate giggle slipped before she got herself back under control. The next few days would reveal if she’d learned enough to survive the scrutiny of Jedi and Sith both, and if her twenty-five collective years in politics were sufficient practice to allow her to outmaneuver Darth Sideous in his own game board.

By the time the war came, she was going to already be _exhausted_.

* * *

Padmé repeated her contact of Nute Gunray and her declaration that things were over, both to feed Palpatine’s belief in her naïveté and so she could admit to knowing that the Trade Federation was denying the arrival of the Jedi. Contacting Palpatine made her insides twist, but it was protocol, and she had to pretend to trust him. He hadn’t seemed to notice her revulsion, buried deep beneath her inner shields, which was a relief.

But this time, when Panaka advised she make use of the decoy protocol, switching places with Sabé, she didn’t argue.

* * *

She _felt_ the Jedi up ahead.

Padmé kept her poise, her stride, as the droids marched the lot of them towards Camp Four, but she focused on burrowing within her shields so she didn’t accidentally scan anything with her Force abilities. Even an _average_ Padawan could notice another active Force presence, and Obi-Wan wasn’t that. She didn’t trust her ability to stay hidden if she was reaching out rather than receiving.

To accidentally read a Jedi at this point in her second life would be humiliating and disastrous both.

Then the quiet was interrupted by Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, leaping down from the bridge above the street. Jar Jar didn’t so much as jump as fall down, himself, which wasn’t exactly surprising.

“Are you Queen Amidala?” Qui-Gon asked Sabé.

Padmé hadn’t gone over this scenario with her decoy—she’d briefly considered doing so, but she couldn’t afford to instigate rumors that she was prescient—so Sabé hesitated before asking, “Who are you?”

“Ambassadors from the supreme chancellor.” Master Qui-Gon inclined his head, an easily faked display of respect that made Padmé grimace due to how often she’d seen it from Palpatine and Dooku both. “We seek an audience with you, Your Highness.”

“Clear them away,” the lead droid ordered, its programming finally catching up to the changed situational parameters.

The fight was swift enough to startle the others, who hadn’t seen a Jedi in action before, and Padmé nudged her own Force signature to mirror the emotion. Panaka and the formal guards snatched up the weapons, and she pretended not to see her captain’s glance that asked if she wanted one.

The Jedi guided them into the shelter of an alley, and Qui-Gon faced the woman he thought was queen. “Your Highness, I am Qui-Gon Jinn. This is my apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi. We are Jedi Knights, as well as ambassadors for the supreme chancellor.”

 _Redundant,_ Padmé observed, and found herself wondering anew why these two Jedi had been selected for this particular mission. It had been meant to be diplomatic, and she knew of at least two Jedi both better suited for delicate negotiations and available on Coruscant at the moment.

She glanced at Obi-Wan _(“I’m so sorry”)_ , still a Padawan and oh so young. _(“Anakin is the father, isn't he?”)_

Padawan Obi-Wan now was older than Knight Anakin had been then.* It was tempting to think that explained the difference in maturity between the two of them…but Obi-Wan struck her as wiser than even his master, who was at least half again her age even after she factored in her first life.

It occurred to her that the mission to Naboo had been meant as a trap, to kill Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan both.

She could guess at least some of the reasons Palpatine targeted Qui-Gon—weaken Dooku’s ties to the Jedi, eliminate the maverick who would be willing to defy the Council to study something impolitic while being trusted enough that they’d listen to him about whatever he found—but the Sith had tried to kill Obi-Wan even _before_ Anakin entered the picture. That suggested fear.

Palpatine had feared and destroyed Anakin due to his sheer power in the Force. So why was Palpatine afraid of Obi-Wan?

“We are brave, Your Highness,” she said at the appropriate time to tell Sabé _Yes! Go!_ , but she was mulling more on what might cause Palpatine to notice a young Jedi enough to want him killed.

* * *

They broke through the blockade the same way as the previous time around, and Sabé ordered a commendation for the all-too-familiar astromech droid.

“Padmé,” Sabé said.

She stepped forward for the order she knew the woman was going to give—a menial task, part of the decoy protocol. She felt the flicker of recognition from Master Qui-Gon, and then wariness. He’d caught that she had influence over Sabé’s decisions, then. That explained some of his behavior, if he’d thought her the queen’s puppetmaster, but still didn’t excuse the rudeness and disrespect he would display on Tatooine.

Obi-Wan, she noticed with some amusement, was far more focused on gathering information than on drawing conclusions from insufficient data—and he, unlike his master, had bothered to check the auras of the sentients on the ship for Force-sensitivity. Useful information to be aware of, to know whose hunches warranted credence.

She missed him.

* * *

_He did not intend to destroy the lobby against the Military Creation Act. He did not intend…_

The more she saw of Jar Jar, the less she missed _him_. His exasperating behavior wasn’t entirely his fault—he was was far more clever than most gave him credit for, just clumsy to a degree that made him an unwitting saboteur—but when she looked at him, she saw the walking disaster he was going to be, dogging her footsteps for the next umpteen _years_.

Padmé frowned and wondered if there could be a biological reason for Jar Jar’s clumsiness. The Gungans kept to themselves, so the medics of the Republic would have only ever compared Jar Jar’s medical readouts to others of himself. She’d have to fix that.

She’d also have to draft her own alternative to the Military Creation Act and coach him through it, in the weeks before Cordé’s death—long enough beforehand that he wouldn’t mention it to Palpatine, but short enough that he’d remember and substitute _her_ version when called upon to give emergency powers to the chancellor. As long as she kept Palpatine underestimating her, he’d think everything was going according to plan and not notice the changes until it was too late. If she handled the records and phrasing right, she could probably even entrap him in blaming Mace Windu for it.

Ooh, could she arrange things to out Palpatine as the Sith at the _start_ of the Clone Wars? The prospect intrigued her. Fewer deaths would be lovely. (But would Luke and Leia be conceived?)

Anakin was still going to hate her, though.

* * *

From what Padmé knew of Master Qui-Gon, if she tried to arrange to accompany him before he left the ship, he would steamroll over Sabé’s orders and possibly order Obi-Wan to restrain Padmé herself. She therefore repeated the way she’d arranged it last time: by arguing with Panaka and nearly missing the window to join the man.

Qui-Gon was unhappy when Panaka brought her out. Padmé sensed that he only acquiesced because he thought she might be useful.

How self-serving and utterly un-Jedi of him.

She hadn’t said anything to the Jedi Council, in her last lifetime, because she hadn’t felt it her place to do so. She also hadn’t trusted her own perceptions. Anakin ended up idolizing Qui-Gon, to a degree that would’ve caused difficulty in his relationship with Obi-Wan even without Palpatine feeding the disconnect.

She pressed her lips together, remembering her old regret that she hadn’t confronted the Jedi Master about how he’d mistreated others, how she’d thought he would’ve wanted to know. Perhaps she could resolve both issues, this time.

* * *

As they approached the central part of Mos Espa, Qui-Gon summarized the major political-cultural divisions of Tatooine in a low tone, to avoid attracting attention. That pitch of voice was wise. His assumption that Naboo’s handmaidens were merely ceremonial and decorative and hadn’t an education to suit their positions, less so.

“This is a rough and dangerous place,” he said, as if that hadn’t been obvious even before they entered the city. “It features moisture farms for the most part, but also a few indigenous tribes and scavengers. The few spaceports like this one are havens for those who do not wish to be found.”

Padmé glanced up at him. “Like us,” she commented, letting him decide if he wanted to interpret her words as pointed or ignorant.

Jar Jar had, thank the Force, managed to stay out of trouble so far, though he was terrified and mumbling to himself. Artoo kept chirping at him, trying to cheer him up.

She smiled sadly. She’d missed Artoo, during the war, but at least she’d known her husband and old friend were protecting each other.

Artoo bumped her leg—something that had _not_ happened, last time—and trilled a query. She glanced at him and felt a flare of alarm as she realized the unconventional astromech might be adaptable enough to realize what was so strange about her. “I’m fine, Artoo. Just worried about my family.”

Artoo beeped in reassurance, and she gave him a grateful smile.

Qui-Gon led them off the main thoroughfare, into the small plaza she would’ve known even if she hadn’t felt the warmth of the familiar Force signature nearby. “We’ll try one of the smaller dealers.”

He hadn’t consciously noticed Anakin yet. For all that Qui-Gon insisted he was a master of the Living Force, Obi-Wan–the–Padawan was more mindful of the Force and its prodding.

Padmé considered the Jedi Master with some amusement.

Qui-Gon tilted his head. “Handmaiden?”

No one was listening in on their conversation, but his form of address was one more evidence of his obliviousness.

“Your communication skills leave much to be desired,” she said outright.

He frowned. “Handmaid—”

“I am not disagreeing with your suggestion about which type of dealer we should try. I am pointing out that your phrasing is heavy-handed and rude. I am your ally, not your servant.” She would have said _Padawan_ , but that word would’ve drawn attention from someone shopping two doors down. “Your use of ‘we will’ is condescending and presumptuous in context. ’Let us try’ would have been a polite option.”

Master Qui-Gon stared at her.

She didn’t sense any particular emotion, so she doubted even he knew what he was feeling.

Padmé glanced to the shop entrance and lifted her eyebrows at Master Qui-Gon, a pointed nudge for him to move on. Too long of a delay, and Jar Jar would never get on Sebulba’s bad side, and they’d miss running into Anakin and probably end up stuck out in the sandstorm. _That_ would end well. Scarred by sandblasting was precisely how she wanted to meet Palpatine face-to-face.

(Technically, she had already met him, since he was Senator of Naboo and the Chommell Sector, but she’d been Princess of Theed, then. A city mayor was far less important than a planetary ruler. He’d paid her so little notice Before that he’d _still_ thought her gullible in coming week, so she didn’t think those meetings counted.)

The outright shock on Qui-Gon’s face made Padmé want to sigh, but he turned and ducked inside.

She shook her head, checked on Artoo and Jar Jar—oh, the dung on his foot; she’d forgotten about that—and followed him into the shop where she’d meet her future husband.

* * *

Watto flew over to Qui-Gon and greeted him in Huttese, ignoring Padmé and Jar Jar as potential customers. (That seemed as if it might be useful, at some point, though she wasn’t quite sure what it was causing to niggle at her.)

The Jedi answered in Basic, and Watto continued the conversation in the same. Padmé couldn’t remember when she’d learned the Toydarian’s name and hoped it would be soon, before she slipped up.

Qui-Gon at least directed Watto’s attention away from Jar Jar’s species, but…

“My droid has a readout of what I need.”

 _‘The’ droid,_ she thought irritably. Another rude and unnecessary lie. Perhaps Qui-Gon’s problem wasn’t so much an addiction to gambling as it was an addiction to defiance. Weren’t the resultant hormones similar? She’d looked it up once, wanting to be sure Anakin’s tendency to lose his lightsabers didn’t make him likely to abandon Artoo in some Separatist facility.

That was before she’d realized all Jedi had reckless tendencies. Some just hid it better than others. A side effect of how they applied some of their philosophies, she supposed.

“Boy! Get in here now!” Watto snapped in Huttese.

A lump froze in Padmé’s throat as Anakin ran in.

The Toydarian demanded, “What took you so long?”

Anakin hadn’t taken long at all—but the older, more experienced her knew the misplaced scold was a social signal, boasting that the boy was a slave rather than an employee. She hadn’t known that, last time.

Anakin gave his master the requested answer to the question, including a reminder that he’d been doing as instructed. Watto interrupted him, dismissing his answer and telling him to mind the store.

Padmé’s stomach lurched as she recognized the conversation pattern. _Here,_ something within her whispered. _Here is a seed that twisted Anakin’s relationship with Obi-Wan._

Sometimes there wasn’t time to let someone finish answering a question. Sometimes you _had_ to cut them off and direct them to do something else. That didn’t mean you thought they were property rather than people. It just meant that the situation warranted another action.

Anakin had never learned that. He thought interruptions and redirections necessarily indicated disrespect of him as a person.

 _Therapy,_ she realized. _That whole Order needs therapy._

If the Jedi were healthier emotionally and psychologically, they’d be less susceptible to Falling—but that was also why she couldn’t do anything about that until after Palpatine was taken care of. He’d kill her early for certain, if he noticed her sabotaging his plans for genocide. And if she failed…who _could_ succeed?

She imagined the nine-year-old Anakin with the memories of having slaughtered the Tusken Raiders who’d murdered his mother, and shivered.

Watto led Qui-Gon and Artoo out the way Anakin had come.

On the way, Qui-Gon grabbed something from Jar Jar. “Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

Yes. That was a perfectly polite and respectful way to speak to a sentient.

Jar Jar stuck his tongue out at the Jedi Master’s back and picked whatever he’d been looking at back up. Padmé resisted the urge to applaud.

Anakin was staring at her, the sensation achingly familiar and yet innocent in a way that felt so strange. She’d been married for three years, meeting her husband in all-too-rare stolen moments and secret rendezvous, and now she’d lived six years without him.

The ten years yet to go had never felt so impossibly long.

“Are you an angel?” he asked, having sat up on the counter near her while she was distracted.

“What?” she answered, because she would not— _could_ not—bear to risk damaging this meeting.

“An angel. I've heard the deep space pilots talk about them. They’re the most beautiful creatures in the universe. They live on the moons of Iego, I think.”

 _(“You betrayed me!”)_ She flinched at the memory of blue irises turned yellow, then forced a smile.

Nine-year-old Anakin studied her with a solemnity that reminded her he was a _slave_. He had read her flinch. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re a funny little boy,” she interrupted, determined to get back on script. “How do you know so much?”

He kept eyeing her.

 _He isn’t trained in the Force, yet. It’s all instinct. Even Master Qui-Gon isn’t noticing your shields_.

_We’ve already established that Master Qui-Gon’s attention to those around him leaves something to be desired._

Anakin finally shrugged. “I listen to all the traders and starpilots who come through here. I’m a pilot, you know, and someday, I’m gonna fly away from this place.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a pilot?”

“All my life,” he said easily.

_(“…Anakin Skywalker destroyed the control ship,” Quarsh Panaka had repeated, staring in disbelief at her lead pilot, Ric Olié.)_

Oh, that was going to be a fun conversation to experience again! “Have you been here long?”

“Since I was very little, three, I think. My mom and I were sold to Gardulla the Hutt, but she lost us, betting on the podraces.”

Still no mention of Watto, but at least she could admit to realizing: “You’re a slave?”

“I’m a person!” he retorted. “And my name is Anakin!”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, knowledge of what his temper could become making her lightheaded. _(“They’re animals! And I slaughtered them like animals!”)_ “I—”

She couldn’t bring herself to make the indirect tactful concession that she had last time. _(“I don’t fully understand.”)_ She had spoken as someone trained in communication from her youngest years, and that was a language Anakin didn’t understand.

She translated that sentence to what she’d meant: “I meant no offense.” Padmé forced a smile and added, “This is a strange place to me.”

He was studying her again. “You are a strange girl to me.”

Thank the Force he had said that last time, else she’d get nervous enough to catch Qui-Gon’s attention out back.

“Anakin Skywalker,” he said, introducing himself.

She smiled, annoyed at herself for not thinking to partition the memories so they didn’t interrupt the reality she was living in. “Padmé Naberrie.”

Jar Jar activated the pit droid and made a mess in catching it—though he _did_ catch it.

“Hey!” Anakin called, laughing. “Hit the nose!”

“Oh!” Jar Jar said, and he displayed the intelligence that most didn’t notice by calmly following Anakin’s instructions, releasing the pit droid, and then studying said ‘nose’.

Padmé smiled. The clumsiness made his curiosity get him in trouble so often that people mistook him for a fool…and that was probably why he’d outlived her. Little reason to kill someone who habitually but accidentally distracted his own allies and sabotaged their property.

“I’m going to marry you,” Anakin said, more quietly than she remembered.

She heated with the memory of their wedding. _He’s_ nine _!_ she reminded herself, but her adolescent body didn’t care about his current age and was interested in what she remembered.

 _This is embarrassing._ She gave him an awkward smile. “Why do you say that?”

He hesitated, uncertain. “I guess because that’s what I believe.”

 _No._ Padmé swallowed. Jedi liked talking about how the future was in motion, and ignoring anyone whose precognition was more accurate than they were comfortable believing possible.

She glanced back towards the yard, where Master Qui-Gon was arguing with Watto. The Jedi was agitated, distracted, and not paying attention to the lot of them inside.

Padmé looked the boy in the eye. “Don’t let anyone convince you your instincts aren’t real, Anakin. You might sometimes misinterpret them, or you might confuse emotion or what you _want_ to believe for what your instincts are telling you, but your instincts _are_ real, and you _should_ trust them.”

Anakin blinked. “You believe me?”

_(“Well, I’m afraid I can’t marry you, Anakin. You’re just a little boy.” “I won’t always be.”)_

Her smile was tighter than she wished. “You won’t always be a little boy. And then we’ll find out if you’re right.”

“We’re leaving,” Qui-Gon announced as he strode back through the shop, annoyance rolling off him. Apparently the basic concept of shielding himself to keep his emotions from affecting the sentients around him was beyond the interest of the Jedi Master.

Great. Now _she_ was infected with his irritation.

“Let’s go,” he added.

That mollified her a little, though she was pretty sure he’d said that last time, too.

She smiled at Anakin as she backed towards the exit. “I’m glad to have met you, Anakin.”

Padmé turned and left the shop.

“I’m glad to have met you, too!” he called after her.

She closed her eyes as she followed Master Qui-Gon.

She couldn’t repeat the ten-year silence after the Battle of Theed. She had to stay in touch with Anakin, somehow—in some way that wouldn’t catch the notice of the Jedi, the Sith, or the media.

_I’ll also need records, to disprove accusations of inappropriate conduct and grooming of a minor, once our relationship comes out…_

Master Qui-Gon stopped abruptly, and she stopped, too, opening her eyes.

He was staring at her. “You are Force-sensitive.”

…She’d been using a light Force trance to avoid obstacles.

Padmé winced. She definitely had to shelve the memories before she encountered Palpatine. The flashbacks were shredding her shields.

She was going to have to meditate before they reached Coruscant, which meant both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan would have to know beforehand, unless she wanted them to display their confusion on the landing platform and thereby alert the Sith Master to her abilities.

“The queen is aware. She does not want it known,” Padmé said. “There are those who would see a Force-sensitive as valuable for nefarious purposes.”

He nodded solemnly. “I myself have been victim of one scientist who ran experiments on Force users, before her arrest.”

Perhaps his running roughshod over non-Sensitives was for as simple a reason as untreated trauma: he was subconsciously protecting himself.

“May I ask who taught you?” he asked.

Padmé treated him to her _unimpressed_ expression. “Do you realize, Master Jedi, that you have been exceedingly more polite towards me in the seconds since you noticed I am Force-sensitive?”

He hadn’t, judging from the return of his shock. “Thank you for the lesson. Now, please answer my question. Who taught you? I am a master of the Living Force, and I was unaware of your sensitivity until just now.”

“You weren’t looking for it,” she pointed out. “It’s been there all along.”

“I assure you, it—”

“Ask your Padawan,” Padmé cut in, unable to keep sharpness from her voice. “My grandmother shared stories, letting me know of things that were possible, and I taught myself to do them.”

She was hiding truth with truth, again.

However, there was a more important matter at hand. She looked him in the eye. “The question is, are you going to accept that I am no Jedi and my midichlorian count is my business, or are you going to endanger me and the queen?”

He was going to die. That knowledge might have made her a bit bolder than she would’ve been otherwise.

But he also displayed poor communication skills and understanding of politics. Those factors tempered any desire to take advantage of the opportunity to be forthright, since he _was_ going to die in the next few days.

It was going to be a lonely decade.

She avoided thinking about how the decisions she was making meant that she’d be lonely _after_ she defeated Palpatine, too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Per Wookiepedia, Obi-Wan was 25 in TPM, whereas Anakin was 23 in RotS.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps the Jedi Master was depressed? That would explain…a lot, honestly.
> 
> Maybe, after Padmé destroyed Palpatine, she could get the Senate to demand psych evals on everyone in the Order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reference the novels for dialogue, but I replaced with movie version when I or my betas remembered it.

Before they returned to the main thoroughfare, Qui-Gon paused in a nook to call Obi-Wan with some privacy. There was nothing of value on the ship, she knew, and she wondered why he didn’t bother to ask her what resources she might have.

 _He thinks you’re young, inexperienced, and too influential over the queen._ Even if that was so, it was unwise to entirely ignore the information potential allies might provide…or withhold. That he didn’t even pretend to consult with the Naboo officials made her wonder if the Council had expected negotiations to end up aggressive all along. The Jedi Master had the wrong temperament for a peace treaty. Perhaps the Council had expected him to let Obi-Wan handle it?

“And you’re sure there’s nothing of value left on board?” Qui-Gon asked his padawan over the commlink.

She _felt_ Obi-Wan’s hesitation—considering the question, and possibly its propriety. She’d have to ask Sabé later if he sighed at Qui-Gon’s antics. He’d certainly done so at Anakin’s.

 _“A few containers of supplies,”_ Obi-Wan answered. _“The Queen’s wardrobe, maybe. But not enough for you to barter with. Not in the amounts you’re talking about.”_

“All right,” Qui-Gon said, frowning. “I’m sure another solution will present itself. I’ll check back later.”

Padmé looked at her hands, hearing what Obi-Wan _hadn’t_ pointed out: the possibility of _earning_ the cash, rather than bartering for it, and that perhaps the queen’s retinue could assist with that. Podracing wasn’t the only option for some quick cash. She could think of four legal possibilities off the top of her head, and she found it interesting that the man didn’t even try to look for options, instead just expecting them to come to him.

Perhaps the Jedi Master was depressed? That would explain…a lot, honestly.

Maybe, after she destroyed Palpatine, she could get the Senate to demand psych evals on everyone in the Order.

Though if she could manage that, she’d have to see about sneaking in a clause for getting mind healer evals on everyone in the Senate…

When Qui-Gon shut down his comlink and started to step back out into the avenue, Jar Jar grabbed his arm and protested, voicing the anxiety he’d been feeling even before the Jedi Master started bleeding it.

There was no shame in feeling emotions, but inflicting them on others without their consent was rude.

“Wesa be robbed and crunched,” Jar Jar insisted.

“Not likely,” Qui-Gon answered, sighing and pulling his arm free of the Gugan’s grip. “We have nothing of value. That’s our problem.”

The four of them headed down the street, and Padmé waited for him to ask her, since he obviously wasn’t going to ask ‘the queen’ or Panaka.

If not for the impending sandstorm and need to encounter Anakin again _soon_ , she would have spoken up, pointed out options, but as things stood…

This situation had worked before. There was no need to replace it and risk damaging something else.

Sure enough, Jar Jar promptly got himself into some trouble with the for-sale amphibian (which he hadn’t realized was merchandise rather than free for the taking) and his accidental launch of it into a particular sentient’s meal. Anakin would beat the Dug in the race, but she couldn’t remember his name.

Qui-Gon was observing rather than assisting even before Anakin stepped up to help Jar Jar. That bothered her.

“ _Chesko_ , Sebulba,” Anakin said, sounding amused…and that conversation progressed how she remembered, though she was more fluent in Huttese, this time, and she caught the boy’s scoffing, “Yeah, it would be a pity if you’d have to pay for me.” _(“Eh, chee bana do mullee ra.”)_

The prick of a realization long overdue gripped her by the back of the neck, making the hair there stand on end. Even a decade later, after their wedding, Anakin would _still_ use Huttese when upset or distracted.

She closed her eyes, cursing herself for never recognizing that her husband hadn’t been a native speaker of Basic.

Small wonder they’d had communication problems.

She gave Anakin a tired but thankful smile for helping Jar Jar, as Qui-Gon thanked him outright and Anakin informed him that Jar Jar “was about to be turned into orange goo” by “an especially dangerous Dug called Sebulba”.

“But–but mesa doen nutten!” Jar Jar insisted.

Padmé was not looking forward to the long process of teaching him poise and diplomacy again.

“Fear attracts the fearful,” Anakin told him. “Be less afraid.”

 _(“You die in childbirth.”)_ Tears pricked her eyes at the memory of how fear had destroyed her husband. _Oh, Anakin,_ she mourned. “When did you stop following your own advice?”

Artoo bumped her leg again, asking if she was all right. Qui-Gon and Anakin were both staring at her.

“What do you mean?” Anakin asked.

Padmé’s mind raced as she tried to figure out how much she’d said aloud.

“Who were you speaking to?” the Jedi Master asked gently, tone so much kinder than the one he used with Jar Jar.

She swallowed, face cold despite the heat of the day. “It’s nothing.”

“Do you get visions often?” he pressed.

She gave him an odd look. “I was thinking out loud.” She gave Anakin a smile that he would read as apologetic, maybe even sheepish. “Sorry. Your comment made me think of something my grandmother used to say.”

“Oh?” Anakin perked up.

Qui-Gon was trying hard to hide his interest, but he was playing _too_ nonchalant.

Padmé looked young Anakin in the eye and shared the advice that had kept her temper in check later this week, when the Senate had essentially ignored her and she’d called for a vote of no confidence. It wasn’t a Jedi sentiment, but it would help him, if he could understand it.

“Anger should be ice,” she said. “Not heat.”

Ice could be shattered and sublimated into vapor, after all, and was that not what Jedi did with their darker emotions?

* * *

Anakin bought them pallies, same as Before, and promised Jira a cooling unit that Qui-Gon would take him away from Tatooine before he could provide.

Padmé had to look away to keep her composure.

“Are you okay?” Anakin asked, in the innocent and open manner he’d had at this age—and which the combination of ignored trauma and Palpatine’s machinations had warped by the time they met again.

Her heart lurched. No, she could not abandon him for the ten years that Palpatine would use to nurture doubt and distrust. Not now that she knew how poorly the Order would care for him and Shmi both. “I’m just tired.”

“Oh, my bones are aching,” Jira said. “Storm’s coming up, Ani. You’d better get home quick.”

Anakin turned to them. “Do you have shelter?”

Qui-Gon nodded. “We’ll head back to our ship.”

“Is it far?” he asked.

“It’s on the outskirts,” Padmé answered, as she had before.

“You’ll never reach the outskirts in time! Sandstorms are very, very dangerous. Come on—I’ll take you to my place.”

Anakin took her hand in his, and her memory supplied the metal that had replaced it before his twentieth birthday. She suppressed her shiver, but his solemn glance up at her said he’d felt it anyway.

He still clung to her hand with a grim determination to get them—or at least her—to shelter.

With her scolding of Qui-Gon and its aftermath, their errands had taken a bit longer than they had Before. By the time they reached his home, the storm was worse than what she’d previously experienced, and Padmé’s exposed skin felt raw, scraped.

“Mom! Mom, I’m home!” Anakin called, announcing them as they entered the small adobe dwelling.

“Ah… Dissen cozy,” Jar Jar said.

It was.

Shmi came around the corner from her work area with a wide smile, which faltered into concern as she glanced at the four of them. “Ani, what’s this?”

“These are my friends, Mom.” Ani grinned at Padmé—an expression so rare after he grew up that she couldn’t look away.

“I’m Qui-Gon Jinn,” she heard the Jedi Master say.

“I’m building a droid,” Anakin said quickly, with the eagerness she remembered and missed. “You wanna see?”

“Your son was kind enough to offer us shelter,” Qui-Gon said.

Shmi was Force-sensitive, so the Jedi Master _would_ be polite to her.

Padmé let Anakin lead her off to meet C-3PO.

* * *

The sight of the not-quite-finished Threepio felt bittersweet, as she remembered how invaluable the droid had been as a companion during the war. What would have happened to him, after she died Before?

She was smirking even before Threepio asked Artoo, “I beg your pardon, but what do you mean, naked?”

Artoo beeped.

“My parts are showing? My goodness! Oh!”

* * *

Shmi and Anakin explained about slave transmitters—and Anakin mentioned his heretofore unsuccessful attempts to build a scanner to locate theirs.

Watto’s assumption that she wasn’t a customer, Anakin’s willingness and ability to build a scanner…

There were pieces missing, but an opportunity was in there, somewhere. To help the slaves, or to help the clones?

Her breath caught. _Order 66._ Where had she heard that? _Had_ she heard that?

No, Obi-Wan wouldn’t have burdened her with the clones’ betrayal while she was dying. Which meant she’d picked that up from someone thinking about it, between the destruction of the Temple and her death.

 _Scanners. Inhibitor chips. Kimono._ Master Sifo-Dyas would be ordering the clones any day, now.

 _No, not any day. After you thwart the Invasion of Naboo._ At this point, Palpatine would still be trusting the might of the Trade Federation army. Droids were less visible in the Force than sentients, and the Trade Federation had sufficient legal reason for its standing army that it could expand production without arousing suspicion, if they handled it right.

She suspected that Sifo-Dyas hadn’t been the one to order the clones at all.

Jar Jar nabbed a pallie with his tongue in what Padmé now recognized as an attempt to lighten the mood from all the slave talk.

She forced the words she’d said last time out of her throat. “I can’t believe there’s still slavery in the galaxy. The Republic’s antislavery laws are—”

“The Republic doesn’t exist out here,” Shmi interrupted, and not unkindly. “We must survive on our own.”

Awkward silence fell, though not the same kind as had happened Before. Qui-Gon was studying her, and Anakin looked puzzled.

“Has anybody ever seen a podrace?” the boy asked—the same distraction method he’d tried before, to change the topic of conversation to something less depressing.

Alarm flared in Shmi, quickly suppressed, and Padmé gave the woman a sympathetic glance as she shook her head.

Pain speared her temple.

Qui-Gon’s nonchalance seemed directed at both Anakin _and_ Padmé, this time. “They have podracing on Malastare. Very fast, very dangerous.”

“I’m the only human who can do it,” Anakin said.

“You must have Jedi reflexes if you race pods.” The Jedi Master was keeping his gaze on Anakin.

 _Piloting isn’t my gift,_ she thought wearily.

As Qui-Gon caught Jar Jar’s tongue in the middle of grabbing another pallie, he glanced at her. _No?_

She went cold, fear suppressing any heat that embarrassment could bring. _I did not give you permission to read my thoughts, Master Jedi._

When had he pressed in?

“Don’t do that again,” he warned Jar Jar, and he inclined his head towards her in acquiescence as he released the Gungan’s tongue.

How much had he seen?

Anakin hesitated, then asked, “You’re a Jedi Knight, aren’t you?”

The question had been directed only at Master Qui-Gon, last time. This time, she had the sense that he was asking both or either of them, and she looked away, face hot.

The pain slipped out of her head, and Qui-Gon hesitated before asking, “What makes you think that?”

“I saw your lightsaber. Only Jedi carry that kind of weapon.”

Padmé shivered. That mistaken but common belief had been part of the reason Palpatine so easily turned public opinion against the Jedi, for anyone with a lightsaber was believed to be a Jedi—and if that person slaughtered innocents, well…

Master Qui-Gon casually leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps I killed a Jedi and took it from him.”

“I don’t think so,” Anakin answered. “ _No one_ can kill a Jedi.”

The grief Padmé remembered washed over Qui-Gon, so much stronger now that she had trained to sense it.

“I wish that were so,” he said softly.

_Yep. Depressed._

“I had a dream I was a Jedi,” Anakin said, excitement building. “I came back here and freed all the slaves. Have you come to free us?”

Qui-Gon Jinn shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“I think you have. Why else would you be here?”

Ah, Anakin’s belief in his own suspicions over what someone claimed or the evidence showed. It was innocent now, but—

_(“You brought him here!”)_

Padmé curled in protection around her nonexistent children before she could stop herself. Her throat felt tight, and she couldn’t get air.

“Padmé?!” Anakin asked, sounding worried.

Qui-Gon’s hand on her shoulder was too close to her throat, and she shoved herself away. Her chair toppled, and scrambling to her feet helped her regain control enough to breathe.

She was shaking, and she could feel how wide her eyes were, but she turned to Anakin. “Our ship was damaged.” Thank the Force her voice came out steady. “We’re on our way to Coruscant, on a very important mission, but we’re stranded here until we can repair the ship.”

Silence answered her for a long moment.

Shmi and Anakin held themselves calmly, kept their movements slow—as slaves, they’d probably seen worse than Padmé’s reaction.

Qui-Gon had taken a step back, against the wall, and held his hands spread and open in a manner that should’ve appeared nonthreatening. As it was, it reminded her of Anakin and Obi-Wan using telekinesis and playing dumb.

Jar Jar’s own reaction was somewhere between the two, possibly because he was watching them for cues.

Worry for her pulsed off Anakin. “I can help with your ship. I can fix anything!”

Qui-Gon smiled at him, though his own concern tempered it. “I believe you can,” he reassured Anakin, “but first we must acquire the parts we need.”

“Wit no-nutten moola to trade,” Jar Jar said—focusing on the part of the conversation he understood, rather than fretting about what he hadn’t.

Pain stabbed her in the temple, again.

_What do you see, handmaiden?_

She pictured _shoving_ him out of her mind.

“I _don’t. have. visions_ ,” she insisted, then realized it was too late for that protest to do any good. Fatigue welled, and with it the calm that came from bone-deep weariness. “I had a dream that I was murdered by a Sith.”

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but it explained her reaction…and, when it didn’t happen in the next few days, it would keep Anakin from believing she could _know_ the future, like he did.

Alarm flared in Qui-Gon.

“What’s a Sith?” Anakin asked.

Padmé shivered. She’d forgotten that the ancient enemies of the Jedi weren’t common knowledge. “Someone who wants to eradicate all Jedi and control the galaxy.”

_(“The trouble is that people don’t always agree.” “Then they should be made to.”)_

“The Sith are extinct,” Qui-Gon said quietly.

She looked at him, feeling every bit of her collective thirty-odd years. “Are they? Or is that what they want you to believe? The holocrons still exist, and so does”—she glanced at Anakin—“their cemetery.”

Qui-Gon casually took another bite of their meal. “Excellent point, handmaiden.”

Padmé swallowed and righted her chair, willing her pulse to slow. “I’m sorry about that. The dream was…vivid.”

Sympathy showed in the eyes all three Force-sensitive humans, while Jar Jar just looked puzzled. Artoo trilled kindly.

Padmé looked to Qui-Gon and sought to restore the script. “These junk dealers must have a weakness of some kind.”

“Gambling,” Shmi answered immediately, letting her step past what had happened and move on. “Everything in Mos Espa revolves around betting on those awful races.”

Thus why the Jedi Master was about to develop an apparent addiction to doing gambling, himself.

“Podracing,” Qui-Gon mused. “Greed can be a powerful ally.”

Anakin shuffled his feet against the floor. “I’ve built a racer,” he started, and his hesitation was supplanted by excitement as he kept speaking. “It’s the fastest ever! There’s a big race tomorrow on Boonta Eve. You could enter my pod.”

“Anakin!” Shmi cut in. “Watto won’t let you.”

“Watto doesn’t know I built it.” Anakin looked at Qui-Gon. “You could make him think it was yours, and you could get him to let me pilot it for you!”

“I don’t want you to race,” Shmi said, as full of concern as she’d been last time. “I die every time Watto makes you do it.”

“But Mom, I love it! The prize money would more than pay for the parts they need.”

“There’s no one friendly to the Republic out here,” Padmé said wearily, “but we don’t want to endanger you, Anakin.”

The boy looked to his mother. “Mom, you say the biggest problem in the universe is that no one helps each other.”

Shmi sighed. “ _Anakin_ …”

What had Padmé said, at this point last time? “We’ll find some other way.”

“No,” Shmi said. “Ani’s right. There is no other way. I may not like it, but…he can help you.” She paused, looking at Qui-Gon. “He was meant to help you.”

Last time, Padmé had been bothered by those statements. This time, she understood what they were: an untrained Force-sensitive trusting her instincts.

She smiled at the woman. “Then he’ll be fine.”

For some reason, Shmi seemed to find that more reassuring than anything Qui-Gon had said, in this lifetime or the previous one.

* * *

Padmé wasn’t surprised when Qui-Gon sought her out, that evening, and desired to speak to her alone. They stepped outside, on the steps that led into the courtyard.

“You have seen the future,” he said bluntly. “That is why the queen defers to you.”

 _Not quite._ “I have seen _a_ future,” she admitted, because he’d already gathered that much. She remembered how fractured Anakin and Obi-Wan had been, at the very start of their relationship. If she spoke now, she could prevent it. Perhaps even save Qui-Gon’s life.

Palpatine would notice the interference, would notice _her_. She doubted she would survive to be senator, if that happened now. If Qui-Gon died, the damage caused by her mistake would be minimized.

 _Was this how Anakin’s Fall started?_ she wondered. _One distasteful but necessary stumble at a time?_

_(It was.)_

She looked at the Jedi Master beside her. “The future is always in motion. Isn’t that what you Jedi say?”

He nodded solemnly and looked up at the night sky. “Tell me how you know of the Sith.”

His suspicion was light and well-hidden, but it was there. Padmé sighed. “I told you. I was murdered by one.”

She went back inside to meditate and repair the damage the flashbacks had done to her shielding.

* * *

The next morning, they returned to Watto’s shop early, but not so early that Anakin hadn’t already returned to work.

Padmé considered saying nothing, but thought it best to at least start to repeat the argument they’d had in her first life. “Are you sure about this? Trusting our fate to a boy we hardly know? The queen would not approve.”

She hadn’t, last time.

“The queen doesn’t need to know.”

There was the casual disrespect of non-Sensitives that the Jedi Master didn’t even realize he displayed. “And if _I_ don’t approve?”

“The queen trusts my judgment, young handmaiden. You—”

“You’re doing it again,” Padmé cut in. “Manipulating others out of convenience, not necessity. The queen does _not_ trust your judgment—that’s why I’m in this city with you.” She decided not to mention the condescension inherent in his tone and form of address, calculated to undermine her confidence. “And claiming possession of property you don’t own is _theft_ , Master Qui-Gon.”

He was staring at her with that shocked confusion, again.

She sighed and waved for him to go on into the shop. “Gamble with the ship, but do remember that I am an ally, not an obstacle.”

A few seconds passed before Qui-Gon nodded. “Thank you.”

They entered the shop, and Watto intercepted them—well, intercepted Qui-Gon. He still ignored her. “The boy tells me you want to sponsor him in the race. How can you do this? Not on Republic credits, I think, eh?”

Qui-Gon held out his palm-sized holoprojector. “My ship will provide the entry fee.”

He cast her a glance, as if he was finally noticing his own words. With her shields restored and keeping him from reading anything more than the emotions she allowed on the surface, she smiled.

Watto studied the image, rubbing his chin. “Not bad, not bad. Nubian, eh?”

“It’s in good order, except for the parts we need.” After another moment, he flicked off the holoprojector and put it away.

“What would the boy ride?” Watto asked. “He smashed up my pod in the last race. It would take too long to fix it.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Anakin insisted. “Sebulba flashed me with his vents. I actually saved the pod…mostly.”

The Toydarian laughed. “That he did! The boy is good, no doubts there! But still—”

“I have acquired a pod in a game of chance,” Qui-Gon interrupted smoothly, drawing the other’s attention back to him. “The fastest ever built.”

Watto’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I hope you didn’t _kill_ anyone I know for it?”

He scrutinized the Jedi Master, who did a good job of feigning mock-innocence.

 _Qui-Gon’s more comfortable dealing with obstacles than allies._ Perhaps the grief and depression derived from betrayal by a presumed ally—betrayal that led to the death of a friend? That would also explain why he coddled Obi-Wan so much, treating him more like a junior Padawan than a senior one that was ready for the Trials.

Watto let out a quick laugh. “So, you supply the pod and the entry fee; I supply the boy. We split the winnings…fifty-fifty, I think.”

Qui-Gon scoffed. “If it’s going to be fifty-fifty, I suggest _you_ front the cost of the entry. If we win, you keep all the winnings, minus the cost of the parts I need. If we lose, you keep my ship.”

The offer was too good to pass up—which was probably why Qui-Gon had decided to conduct his negotiations without consulting her, assuming she wouldn’t understand what he was doing: playing the Toydarian’s greed.

“Either way, you win,” Qui-Gon pointed out—though, to be fair, if he lost and admitted that the items weren’t actually his, that could theoretically protect her ship from siezure…if he was willing to get the Hutts after him.

But that entire scenario was impossible if it hadn’t occurred to him. Which it hadn’t.

Watto thought about Qui-Gon’s offer another moment, then pounded his fist into his open palm. “Deal!”

The Toydarian was laughing as they left the shop.

* * *

As they made their way back to the slave quarters, Padmé felt Qui-Gon’s scrutiny.

“You are wise beyond your years,” he said.

“Perhaps it is the dream,” she answered lightly, intentionally testing to make sure she _could_ discuss the matter without slipping into flashbacks again. Partitioning her mind wasn’t a healthy way to handle it, but it would have to suffice until she would be free of Palpatine’s presence for a few months.

“You know something.”

“I thought Jedi considered visions unreliable.”

Anakin could be misdirected to convince himself he hadn’t noticed something. Obi-Wan wasn’t nearly as gullible. If she slipped in front of _him_ … She grimaced. Obi-Wan would politely but repeatedly maneuver to wear her down until she slipped enough for him to piece it together, no matter how many months (or years) it took.

He would probably hate her, too, come the end.

“The Sith,” Qui-Gon said, finally remembering what she’d said the day before and connecting it to her reluctance to speak. “The one who killed you in your dream. It was someone you know?”

 _My, is he slow on the uptake,_ she thought uncharitably, then reminded herself that he was probably depressed, traumatized, and in need of therapy.

“It might have only been a nightmare,” she said. “My planet has been blockaded for months, and is now invaded. My queen is in danger. The next few days will reveal how true my vision is.”

“It has proven true already,” he said quietly. “You and Anakin will be close?”

She sighed. “You know I can’t answer that. Any response will imply something about whether or not he ended up a Jedi, which will influence your decisions now, and these next few days are too important.” Important for Naboo and Jedi both.

Obi-Wan had been so _damaged_ , even before the war started, and yet he’d had to fake wholeness for the sake of his apprentice. Anakin had latched onto the façade and ignored the reality, encouraged by Palpatine’s poison.

Padmé bit her lip. “Don’t assume you and your apprentice will always have opportunities to make things right between you.”

In other words, one of them was going to die.

Qui-Gon blanched. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

She wasn’t sure if she felt more uncomfortable or appalled that he was _grateful_ for the warning.

* * *

Anakin caught up with them before they reached his home, and he led them to the boneyards for the slave quarter, where his podracer was hidden. He activated the antigrav lifts, and they worked together to get it to the courtyard behind Anakin’s home.

As she had before, Padmé helped get the pod ready for the next day.

Unlike last time, after Shmi joined Qui-Gon on the stairs and Anakin’s friend Kitster showed up, the Jedi Master beckoned her.

Padmé glanced around, hoping he was summoning someone else, but the pain in her temple told her otherwise.

_Please, handmaiden._

She grimaced and went over. “It gives me a headache when you do that.”

Shmi frowned in confusion.

Qui-Gon smiled kindly. “I apologize. I have a query for you.”

Shmi didn’t know whatever Qui-Gon was about to ask, and Padmé wasn’t about to prod a Jedi Master’s mind. She needed her shields intact. “Yes?”

“How old were you?” he asked finally, sounding uncomfortable.

He didn’t know she was the queen. There was only one situation that he would be asking about: when she started training. “My grandmother died a few months ago.”

How old she’d been when she started learning about the Force was irrelevant.

Disappointment flickered in Qui-Gon. “Ah. Thank you.”

Padmé nodded and went back to helping Anakin…well, to helping Jar Jar get out of the way as Qui-Gon handed Anakin a power supply to test the engine.

* * *

That evening, cold ran through Padmé, settling in her bones, and she gave a sharp glance out the window.

Darth Maul had reached Tatooine.

 _This happened last time,_ she reminded herself, breathing slow against the urge to panic. _Other than those who have already fallen on Naboo, no one dies yet._

Yet.

That _was_ the problem, wasn’t it?

The Jedi Master came up behind her.

“You should be helping Anakin with his scrapes,” she said.

“I will,” Qui-Gon said quietly. “May I take a blood sample? I promise I won’t tell who it belongs to.”

A Sith or someone allied with them—someone in hiding from the Jedi Order—would refuse such a request outright.

She _was_ hiding, but if she displayed this much trust of him, he would trust her enough to let her stay hidden.

Padmé rolled up her sleeve and held out her arm. She didn’t flinch at the prick. “It’s ten thousand, two hundred.”

She felt Qui-Gon falter.

“Knight Sar Labooda checked when I was a baby. My sister doesn’t remember it, but her count is only about a thousand.” She glanced back at him. “You should go help Anakin.”

“You would have been an asset to the Order,” he said solemnly, and went to tend Anakin’s scrapes and get a sample of his blood.

 _At least he didn’t say I would’ve made a good Padawan,_ she thought with amusement. Many Force-sensitives trained by the Temple didn’t end up Knights. He respected her enough to share that much truth…even if it had taken the philosophical equivalent of smacking him upside the head multiple times to get to this point.

Hadn’t his apprentice before Obi-Wan Fallen? Padmé did some quick math and realized it was possible that he thought her to be Xanatos’s daughter.

Actually, since she hadn’t known Xanatos’s name before, she _had_ made the Jedi Master think of his previous padawan.

This receptive telepathy plus time travel was going to make things so awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come back Tuesday for the next chapter! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, readers, for your emotional support. It's lovely, and I very much appreciate it!

After gathering the blood sample from Anakin and sending the boy off to bed, Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn called his apprentice.

“Yes, Master?” Obi-Wan asked, sounding as alert as ever.

His Padawan had been ready to be a Knight for years, now, and Qui-Gon still wasn’t ready to let him go. Knights were frequently sent on missions alone.

Going to New Apsolon alone was why Tahl had died.

“I’m transmitting two blood samples,” Qui-Gon said. “Run midichlorian tests on them.” He felt the chill of the young handmaiden’s words to him, earlier that day. ( _“Don’t assume you and your apprentice will always have opportunities to make amends.”)_

“Please,” he added, though he knew Obi-Wan wouldn’t mind its lack.

He wasn’t sure if he hoped Padmé’s visions were true dreams or if he feared they were merely nightmares. In the very least, she’d given him a reminder to keep peace with his Padawan, for the sake of whenever he did join the Force.

“Master.” Obi-Wan sounded confused. “There must be something wrong with the sample.”

_Keep your center_ , he reminded himself. “Which one?”

“The second one. The readout says the midichlorian count is over twenty thousand. Not even Master Yoda has a midichlorian count that high.”

“No Jedi has,” Qui-Gon said, and he noticed Shmi in the doorway behind him. He tensed, their stares met, and she went back inside. “What was the first reading?”

“Twelve thousand, five hundred.”

Qui-Gon frowned. “That’s more than two thousand higher than it should be.”

“Whose is it?”

“I promised not to say.” He regretted that, now. Was the equipment faulty? “Test your own blood.”

There was rustling as Obi-Wan gathered the equipment and checked his own midichlorian count. Qui-Gon waited, concern and impatience warring within him.

“Twelve thousand, six hundred,” Obi-Wan said finally. “Exactly what it should be. That doesn’t make any sense. Master, what does this mean?”

Qui-Gon wished he had the answer. “I don’t know.”

* * *

Before going to sleep, Padmé rolled up a cloth and bit on it, keeping her face to the wall so the others wouldn’t see.

She didn’t dream that night. Had she botched things so badly, already?

Shmi touched her shoulder, drawing Padmé’s attention into the morning. The slave woman frowned at the cloth.

Padmé spat it out. “I sometimes grind my teeth at night.”

Shmi nodded but seemed troubled. “Ani has dreams. Not often, but…”

Speaking of dreams, Padmé remembered that last time, Anakin had told her of one he had this morning. She couldn’t remember what it was, just that she’d found him out by the podracer, and his words had troubled her.

She got up and brushed herself off. “I’ll go find Anakin.”

She went before Shmi could say anything else.

* * *

She found Anakin precisely where she’d remembered him being, and she woke him with a hand on his cheek.

“You were in my dream,” he said groggily. “You were leading a huge army into battle.”

Oh. That was what had bothered her. She couldn’t remember what she’d said about it, either. “I hate fighting,” she improvised. “Was it soon?”

Anakin frowned. “It didn’t seem to be. You were older, and…you seemed sad.”

Padmé bit her lip, debating if she should ask, but this dream hadn’t ended up coming true in her first life, just like how Anakin had never returned to Tatooine and freed all the slaves. Palpatine’s interference? “Was I pregnant?”

“I don’t know.” He blinked at her. “You’ve dreamed it, too?”

She quickly shook her head. “No. I was just wondering if it fit with the dream I had.”

“The one where the Sith killed you,” Anakin said, and it wasn’t a question. “I won’t let that happen.”

Padmé knew that strain entered her smile. “You can’t save everyone, Anakin.”

_(“You’re not all-powerful.” “Well, I_ should _be!”)_

She froze, part of her expecting nine-year-old Anakin to lash out as he had at nineteen.

But the boy before her was only puzzled, not angry. “Why not?”

“Because _everyone_ has the right to make choices, not just you. Everyone’s choices have effects, not just yours. Sometimes those effects happen before you can make a choice that’ll help. You don’t expect to save everyone in a podrace, do you?”

Anakin frowned thoughtfully. “That’s different. They’ve chosen to race, and their pods and their piloting will save them or not.”

“And when Sebulba cheats? That’s his choice, but it changes if the others’ pods and piloting are enough to save them. It also affects choices you have to make in the race.”

He nodded slowly. “I think I understand.”

Dear Force, had she managed to undermine his sense of misplaced responsibility even before Palpatine met him and fanned his ego into hubris? It was almost too much to hope.

Anakin saw something behind her and lit up. “Mom! Is it time to go?”

He shot up and around her and ran over to his mother.

_(“Why couldn’t I save her?! I know I could have!”)_

Grief ate at Padmé’s gut.

Forget exhaustion. By the time the war started, she was going to be half-mad from loneliness.

* * *

The eopies had languid strides and minds that reminded Padmé of the shaaks her parents had kept when she was small. She relaxed into the ride, letting it soothe her to the point that she could mend the damage caused by the flashbacks. It required a light Force trance, but the Sith wasn’t near Mos Espa yet, and Qui-Gon already knew she had some training.

Watto’s laughter jolted her out of her meditation, and she found that they’d reached the arena.

“You’d better stop your friend’s betting,” Watto said in Huttese, “or I’ll end up owning him, too, eh?”

“What did he mean by that?” Anakin asked Qui-Gon as the Toydarian flew off.

“I’ll tell you later,” Qui-Gon promised, kindly not getting the boy’s hopes up.

“This is so wizard!” Kitster exclaimed in excitement. “I’m sure you’ll do it this time, Ani.”

“Do what?” Padmé asked, as if she didn’t know what the boy was going to say.

Kitster was grinning. “Finish the race, of course!”

“You’ve never won a race?” she asked in amusement. “Not even finished?”

Anakin heard an accusation, not the tease. “Well… Not exactly…” He forced a grin and said quickly, “Kitster’s right—I will, this time.”

Qui-Gon put his hands on Anakin’s shoulders, in reassurance. “Of course you will.”

Padmé hid her smirk.

* * *

Padmé trusted Anakin, this time, so she didn’t burden him with added stress by reminding him that he carried the hopes for their mission.

Their very important, classified mission that hinged on a nine-year-old boy winning a podrace on a planet run by crime lords.

She’d been stressed and troubled the first time—and with reason. Qui-Gon had still seen her as a non-Sensitive, and she’d just been _waiting_ for his gambles to fall through and for him to sell-and-rescue her without the decency of a heads-up first.

This time, she mulled on how this situation was an outright _vacation_ , compared to what would come on worlds like Geonosis and Azure…and even wartime Coruscant, to be honest.

She did wait for Qui-Gon by the entrance to their viewing platform.

He joined her, after leaving Anakin with whatever advice he’d given, and she led him towards the others.

Qui-Gon cast her a questioning look. “Does he win?”

Padmé smiled slyly. “We will see.”

Using those words to tease the Jedi Master felt better than had using them to exit conversation with Nute Gunray so few days ago.

“You know,” she commented, “I _am_ a bodyguard who speaks several languages. If this fails, we could always make guard runs through the canyons, protecting businessmen from Tuskens.”

The Jedi Master’s startlement dissolved into rueful appreciation. “We have had more options than I was considering, you mean. Your…current employer would allow you to take another’s contract?”

Padmé lifted her eyebrows at him. “She trusts my judgement, old man. You should, too.”

Qui-Gon laughed.

* * *

Anakin won, of course, and Padmé was perhaps the only sentient in the stands who wasn’t overwhelmed by that result. Humans didn’t have the reflexes for podracing.

Nine-year-old Anakin had just proven some did.

She smiled wryly, looking forward to dealing with his future antics as a pilot. Force, they’d only been able to do it a few times, but playing passenger to his driving in Coruscant traffic had been _fun_. Well worth the scolding from Typho.

Caution flashed through her, and she glanced around, wondering what had changed. Perhaps standing here had caught the eye of someone who had overlooked her, Before?

Her instincts focused her attention on a droid that looked like a Jedi training droid had married a Confederate probe droid and given birth on Mustafar.

The chill in her bones shifted, and she knew who the droid had to belong to.

Many beings around her were armed. She could grab a weapon and disable or destroy the droid, return the weapon, and flee in the resultant scatter. She looked young and hapless, and she could probably get away with it.

But no—the droid had to find Qui-Gon, because Darth Maul had to attack him, so the Council would leave the guardians assigned to her when she returned to Naboo. She couldn’t fight a Sith Apprentice on her own.

She turned away from the Sith tracker droid and hurried to rejoin Anakin and the others, feeling as if she’d just personally murdered Qui-Gon.

She reached them in time to hear Shmi say, “It’s so wonderful, Ani. You’ve brought hope to those who have none. I’m so very proud of you.”

“We owe you everything,” Padmé said, encouraging Anakin, and she grinned at his blush.

“Padmé, Jar Jar—let’s go,” Qui-Gon called. “We’ve got to get these parts back to the ship.”

She gave Anakin a good-bye hug and went to the second eopie, helping Jar Jar get on and stay on.

“I’ll return the eopies by midday,” Qui-Gon called back to the Skywalkers.

Padmé hadn’t looked back, Before.

Now, she did and waved.

* * *

They reached the ship in good time, since they made no detours and encountered no difficulty.

Obi-Wan came down the ship’s boarding ramp as they approached. “I was getting worried.”

Padmé got off her eopie before Qui-Gon came over to help her down.

“Start getting this hyperdrive generator installed,” he told Obi-Wan. “I’m going back. Some unfinished business. I won’t be long.”

Padawan studied Master for a moment, then sighed. Padmé smiled in fond recognition of the action.

“Why do I sense we’ve picked up another stray?” Obi-Wan asked, the amusement in his voice also familiar.

“It’s the boy who’s responsible for getting us these parts,” Qui-Gon explained, then gathered both eopies’ reins, avoiding any glance in Padmé’s direction.

_Careful,_ she heard. _He will notice._

Padmé lost her smile. _Thank you._

Palpatine feared Obi-Wan, she remembered abruptly. And she couldn’t help but feel she’d just gotten a hint as to why.

* * *

As Captain Panaka and her handmaidens and Sabé-the-Queen harangued her for all that had passed over the past two days, Padmé found herself both glad she hadn’t dreamed last night—this conversation was exasperating enough to repeat _once_ —and wishing that she had—she feared she’d get the timelines confused if she gave much detail.

“Gambling is popular in Mos Espa. Master Qui-Gon took advantage of that and a boy with Jedi reflexes to win a bet nobody expected to be winnable, getting us the part we needed and freeing the boy.”

“Jedi reflexes?” Panaka frowned. “You mean he’s Force-sensitive?”

Her captain didn’t _know_ Naboo rulers had to be Force-sensitive, she sensed, but he suspected. He doubtless would have been more sure of that if she’d read the minister’s mind, again.

She wondered, suddenly, if avoiding that particular incident had undermined his faith in her ability to protect herself. That could prove problematic, in the upcoming Battle of Theed.

“Highly,” Padmé said, answering her captain’s query about Anakin’s Force-sensitivity. “More so than they’ve ever seen.”

“Master Qui-Gon told you this?” Panaka sounded incredulous.

She skimmed the top of his mind, enough to know he doubted that she would lie…but he also doubted that a Jedi would _tell_ a non-Jedi such a thing. He was right, of course.

But something about the flavor of his wariness reminded her of Palpatine’s lackeys. How _had_ the Sith Master learned of her marriage, Before?

“Of course not,” she answered, to the question he’d asked, and she looked him in the eye. “I overheard him.”

* * *

When a particular shiver struck Padmé in the middle of lunch, she glanced up and away from everyone.

Panaka leapt to her side. “My lady?”

She didn’t answer and hurried out of the galley, and he fell into step at her side. They met Anakin at the hatchway to enter the ship.

“Qui-Gon’s in trouble,” he gasped.

Padmé stared out the hatchway at Darth Maul, recognizing tactics that both Anakin and Obi-Wan had used in their own fighting styles, during the war.

_(“You’re so beautiful.”)_

Padmé took Anakin by the arm and started them towards the cockpit. “This is a friend,” she told Panaka. “Hurry, Captain.”

Words tumbled out of Anakin’s mouth, too jumbled to explain what he’d witnessed, but that didn’t matter. She knew what was going on, what had happened—and the cold in her bones warned her that the attacker was definitely a Sith.

Pilot Ric Olié and Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi were in the cockpit.

“Take off!” Padmé ordered.

“Qui-Gon is in trouble,” Anakin added.

A dissonant feeling gave Padmé pause. Had they switched lines from Before?

No matter. Obi-Wan was demanding, “Where is he?!”

Did his Force-bond with his master not provide location? His bond with Anakin had.

Obi-Wan pivoted on his heel and peered out the viewport.

“I don’t see anything,” Ric said.

“Over there!” Obi-Wan said, just before the moving dust to port swirled enough to show a lightsaber. “Get us in the air and over there! Now! Fly low!”

Ric flung himself into the pilot’s seat, and Padmé adjusted her stance to balance for a ship in flight.

“Padmé!” Panaka said. “Strap yourself down!”

“I’ll be fine, Captain.” She’d stood through far worse flights than this. It was all in the balance.

Ric took off smoothly.

“There!” Obi-Wan pointed to direct the pilot.

Ric did exactly what he needed to, flying low and easing by the combatants, timing his opening of the boarding ramp to reduce the possibility of the Sith Apprentice coming aboard.

Padmé wondered what would happen if she dropped her shields and flung her full mental strength at him.

“Stand by,” Ric said.

Then Qui-Gon was aboard—and so was Darth Maul, but the Jedi Master dislodged him with a well-timed kick.

“Qui-Gon!” Obi-Wan gasped, and he ran for the boarding ramp.

Padmé and Anakin followed.

* * *

Qui-Gon was seated, leaning back and bracing himself on his arms as he regained his breath.

“Master Qui-Gon!” Anakin said, dropping on his knees at the Jedi Master’s side. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” he answered, giving her a thoughtful glance. “That was a surprise I won’t soon forget—and not only because I probably should’ve expected it.”

“What?” Anakin asked, startled.

“What was it?” Obi-Wan asked, scowling and feeling protective of his teacher.

Padmé clenched her hands against the urge to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. Obi-Wan didn’t know her yet.

“Whoever it was, was well-trained in the Jedi arts. My guess is, he was after the queen.” Qui-Gon was looking at her directly, now. “Or perhaps a particular handmaiden?”

“What?” Anakin asked, and both he and Obi-Wan looked between them, puzzled.

Anakin’s eyes widened with realization. “ _That_ was the Sith from your dream?!”

Padmé winced as Obi-Wan’s full attention fell on her. Could she lie to him? She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“Which one?” fell from her lips before she could stop it.

Qui-Gon’s flare of alarm probably woke everyone on the ship.

“The queen’s handmaiden?” Obi-Wan asked him, sounding incredulous.

The Jedi Master studied her solemnly, ignoring his Padawan. “You’ve dreamt more than once?”

Not what she’d meant, but she was relieved she’d misspoken enough to be misunderstood to that degree. She nodded.

“How often do they come true?”

She still had thirteen years to go before she could answer that. “I don’t know yet.”

“What would Sith want with a handmaiden?” Obi-Wan asked.

Qui-Gon frowned, thinking, and considered Padmé again. “The precedent the Trade Federation has set with this blockade and invasion—it could be used to destabilize the Republic. That would increase Jedi combat missions and therefore increase Jedi casualties.”

He had remembered how she’d defined _Sith_ to Anakin.

“Master?” Obi-Wan asked.

Qui-Gon looked at his apprentice, not giving so much as a hint that she was the one who’d warned him. “If the Sith have returned, they will want to destroy the Jedi Order, but they cannot do so openly. Upsetting the stability of the Republic would whittle our Order, without the Sith having to engage us directly.”

_And here is why Palpatine marked Qui-Gon for death,_ Padmé thought, fascinated by the glimpse of the man he could be, when he was paying attention. _That’s where Obi-Wan learned it from._

“But how would a handmaiden affect that?” Obi-Wan pressed, displaying the tenacity that did him oh-so-well as the Negotiator and General of the Republic—and was why she would rather he _not_ witness one of her slips.

“Do you think he’ll follow us?” Anakin asked.

“We’ll be safe enough once we’re in hyperspace,” Qui-Gon said, sidestepping both questions. “But I have no doubt he knows our destination and will be able to find us again.”

Anakin frowned, determination hardening his face. “What are we going to do about it?!”

Obi-Wan glanced at him, clearly wondering, _Why is he saying, ‘we’?_ and _Master, what unfulfillable promise have you made, this time?_

Her Force empathy was probably contributing to her interpretation of his expression.

“We will be patient,” Qui-Gon answered, and he gathered himself. “Anakin Skywalker, meet Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Anakin seemed to finally notice what Obi-Wan was wearing. “You’re a Jedi Knight, too? Pleased to meet you!”

Obi-Wan smiled and shook Anakin’s offered hand. He glanced at Qui-Gon—and the exasperation he felt was contained, controlled, and politely restrained so it wouldn’t affect others around him.

Padmé kept her gratitude to herself.

Obi-Wan helped Qui-Gon up, and they returned to the cockpit.

The ship entered hyperspace smoothly, and Padmé’s stomach twisted.

_Next stop: Coruscant._

Where she would meet Palpatine face-to-face as Queen of Naboo.

* * *

After the others went to bed, Sabé quietly told her that a message had come from Sio Bibble, one that Obi-Wan had told them was a trick—and that Obi-Wan had ordered them to send no message of any kind.

“Should I have listened to the Jedi?” she asked, a tremor of insecurity in her voice. “He is only a Padawan.”

“Even so, he has more experience with these situations than we do,” Padmé said. “If we ever must hide in the future, do not even accept a transmission for receipt. That alone can be used to establish a connection trace. It is likely how Qui-Gon’s attacker found us.”

“Padawan Kenobi did not mention that.”

“Would it have made a difference, if he had? Or had the message been accepted for receipt before he was informed?”

Sabé’s silence meant Padmé was correct.

“Jedi are trained from infancy to be guardians of the Republic. Most have live combat experience by our age.”

That had been true even before the war, Padmé remembered. The war had just spread Jedi numbers so thin that even children were sent into combat _alone_. And far more often. Without recovery time.

It was honestly surprising that _more_ hadn’t snapped.

“How do you know so much of Jedi?” Sabé asked.

Padmé trusted Sabé with her life, but when the enemy was a Sith? What if Palpatine searched her mind?

Yet she could not bear to tell her handmaiden nothing, even though their friendship had a distance, a formality, that differed from what they’d had when she died. That would lessen as they got more comfortable in their positions as queen and decoy. It had Before.

“I could have been one,” Padmé admitted reluctantly. “My parents chose to keep me.”

Sabé stared at her. “Will this affect your security?”

She couldn’t help but feel amused. “Well, I’m more likely to be offered Jedi bodyguards, when I’m in danger.”

Her breath caught as she realized what she’d said. Even _she_ hadn’t known her midichlorian count, last time, so her Force sensitivity had been a nonissue. Palpatine still would have known she was a Force-sensitive—it _was_ a prerequisite for ruling the planet—so acknowledging it and taking advantage of the benefits wouldn’t affect his plans.

Shouldn’t affect his plans.

_Maybe_ wouldn’t affect his plans.

And Jedi bodyguards would reduce fatalities to her own people _and_ provide opportunity and reason to stay in touch with Obi-Wan and Anakin. Palpatine would likely even push to have them assigned to her, to encourage Anakin’s attachment to her, which would make the Sith consider her tie to the Order an asset rather than a danger.

Feeling lighter than she had in years, Padmé wrapped Sabé in a hug. “You’ll love working with Jedi,” she said. “They’re professionals.”

_(“Looks like she’s on top of things.”)_

She couldn’t help but snicker.

* * *

If not for what happened that evening other than her view of the message, Padmé would have ignored it and gone to bed, more concerned about readying herself to meet with Palpatine than about viewing whatever message Nute Gunray had forged or forced Governor Bibble to send.

But she wanted her japor snippet back, and she wanted to see Anakin, and she slipped through the ship with the quiet she’d practiced so much before her death, until she reached the main conference room. She dodged the sleeping Jar Jar and played the recording.

“Death tolls are catastrophic,” Sio Bibble said in the message, and Padmé pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t scoff. Governor Bibble didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Nor had she, at this point in her life. Not yet.

When it ended, she turned off the holoprojector and stared into the dark. Governor Bibble wouldn’t have said those things of his own volition. The message was likely forged.

That or he’d been Palpatine’s toady all along.

She rubbed her temple and realized how possible that was. It was even _likely_ —Palpatine would’ve subtly sabotaged the careers of whoever had actually been loyal to her.

Panaka had succeeded even after he’d left her employ, and he’d supported Palpatine even after Bibble no longer did so. The betrayal sickened her.

Anakin was watching.

Padmé dropped her hand and turned to him. His moroseness made her heart and stomach lurch _(“You’re not all-powerful.” “Well, I_ should _be!”)_ , but nine-year-old Anakin was a frightened, homesick little boy.

She approached him swiftly despite the dark. “Are you all right, Anakin?”

He swallowed. “It’s very cold.”

She noticed an abandoned cloak nearby—probably Rabé’s—and fetched it, wrapped it around him, resisting the urge to let her fingers linger. She missed his presence. “You’re from a warm planet, and space is cold.”

He pulled the cloak tighter about him. “You seem…” He’d said _sad_ , last time. “Worried,” he said, this one.

“That’s because I’m not sure what’s going to happen,” she said quietly. “To me or my people.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, either,” he admitted.

Padmé pretended not to notice the tears in his voice. The boy was owed dignity.

He dug into his bag. “I made this for you,” he said, holding out what had been her most prized possession for thirteen years. “So you’d remember me. I carved it out of a japor snippet.”

Her fingers wrapped around it, and the leather strap fell over her hand, but what she felt was the metal of the chain she’d changed it to, and the heaviness that had filled her breasts and womb before her death.

She blinked back tears of her own.

“It’ll bring you good fortune,” he said.

_(“You betrayed me!”)_

Her throat closed up, but she managed to rasp, “Thank you.”

She swallowed and forced herself to breathe slowly, to keep herself calm.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You haven’t, Anakin.” The lie rang true outside her mouth, though it was dissonant and false in her head. “You just reminded me of someone.”

She ran the snippet through her hand, exploring it with her fingers. Every smooth edge and every groove was exactly the same as she remembered it. “Thank you,” she whispered again.

But that wasn’t all she had to say.

She was queen of Naboo. She could do this.

Padmé collected herself. “It’s beautiful. I don’t need this to remember you by, but… My caring for you will always remain, Anakin, no matter what changes when we reach Coruscant.”

_Even if you go Sith and slaughter innocents._ If he did that again, she’d try to stop him—she hoped—but she would still love him. Even murdering her and risking their children’s lives hadn’t changed that.

She would have led him far, far away from the twins, had she survived.

“I won’t stop caring for you, either,” Anakin said, swallowing. “Only, I…”

“You miss your mother,” she said gently.

Anakin nodded, rubbing at his face.

Padmé drew him into a hug, which he returned. The warmth, the closeness, the brightness of his aura in the Force… She felt content, comfortable, and didn’t want the feeling to end. “My grandmother died just after I was elected. I still miss her, and I always will. But I know she loves me, and she wants me to be happy.”

_Or at least doesn’t want me to end up murdered by the Sith who’s angling to take over the galaxy._

Stopping Palpatine would make her happy.

Wouldn’t it?

Padmé wasn’t sure she remembered what happiness was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Come back on Tuesday for the next chapter!**  
> 
> If you like my writing enough that you want to see more of it, you can find me for free on Wattpad [@Carradee](https://www.wattpad.com/user/carradee). If you'd like to help support my original writing, you can find my Patreon [@Carradee](https://www.patreon.com/carradee), too. Just tossing that out there in case. ^_^ I have some significant health issues and would appreciate prayers in the very least.
> 
> I hope you're all doing well!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé wanted to slam the proof of the invasion in the Senate’s face.
> 
> She couldn’t afford to do that, yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I went with the timeline for the adult novelization. I figure it also fits with the timeline changes better—Qui-Gon wouldn't want Anakin around while he reported certain things.

The next morning, Padmé was the last to wake up…because she’d already roused the entire ship with her screaming.

Someone—Eirtaé? Rabé?—was shaking her, but it wasn’t until _Handmaiden!_ (in Qui-Gon’s voice) cut through her confusion that she lurched up, struggling to breathe and her arms wrapped about her middle.

She was also outright _terrified_ that everyone’s distress would catch Palpatine’s attention.

Nearly every person aboard the ship was clustered in her room or just outside it. Sabé had obviously slept in the face paint—the better for the continued effectiveness of the decoy protocol, so nobody could recognize her face without the makeup—and her hair and nightgown were in disarray.

Master Qui-Gon had a hand on her lower forearm, and he looked at Sabé. “Your Highness, I must ask that your handmaiden come with us to the Temple.”

Sabé’s eyes widened, and she cast desperate glances at Panaka and Padmé both.

Laughter poured from Padmé’s throat, laughter that choked off as abruptly as it began.

“The Order’s prerogative,” she whispered. Because they’d been attacked by a rogue user of the Force, the Order could take over the questioning—for Jedi and non-Jedi alike—without due process.

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened, probably in surprise that she knew the obscure rule, which hadn’t been used to its full potential in decades. Not until Geonosis, where she’d been the only non-Jedi who warranted questioning, so few had noticed. The law had been quietly abolished soon afterwards. “You wish to—”

“No!” she blurted, as clarity returned. “I appreciate the invitation, but I _must_ stay with my queen.”

Qui-Gon considered her words. “Your queen needs you well, handmaiden. I believe the Jedi can help you.”

Padmé winced at the thought of seeing Barriss, even though the girl would still be an Initiate and not a Healer. Not yet.

“It was only a nightmare,” she insisted, once she was certain her voice wouldn’t slip.

Compassion tempered the disbelief in Qui-Gon’s eyes. “You couldn’t breathe, handmaiden, and you were protecting the child.” _Again_ , he didn’t say.

“Padmé!” Sabé blurted, aghast. “You’re pregnant?!”

“No!”

“It is a dream she has had before,” Qui-Gon said. “One where she is killed by a rogue Force-user.”

“It’s just a nightmare!” Padmé leaned back in her bed, wishing she could afford to groan. Sabé, knowing she was Force-sensitive, would take that warning seriously.

She frowned. Or would she? Did Sabé know about Force visions, yet? _Were_ those one of the commonly known Jedi abilities? She couldn’t remember.

Padmé ran through her memories of how the day had gone in her first life, and sat back up. “This evening,” she said. “I can visit the Temple then.”

She’d leave Sabé to experience Palpatine’s smug pleasure at being nominated for Chancellor. She didn’t think she could deal with that, again. Not with what she knew he was planning to _do_ with the position.

Qui-Gon frowned. “Handmaiden—”

“I’m _needed_ ,” she repeated firmly, staring him down. “I understand and appreciate your concern, but we must speak with Chancell—with the chancellor.”

Thank the Force she’d only have to deal with using the wrong name for a few more hours.

The vote of no confidence might’ve saved Valorum’s life, anyway. Especially if she’d brought evidence of the Trade Federation’s treachery to the emergency meeting—for who else would have given her the idea?

She wanted to slam the proof of the invasion in the Senate’s face.

She couldn’t afford to do that, yet.

Qui-Gon sighed. “I will see you tonight, then.” He bowed to Sabé. “Unless Your Highness objects?”

Sabé looked from him to her and back. “I have no objections,” she said neutrally.

The morning resumed more normally, giving Padmé opportunity to regather her wits.

It helped that Obi-Wan hadn’t been among the ones drawn by her screams.

* * *

Padmé’s nightmare had left Anakin jittery, adding to the discomfort he already felt at the utter foreignness of his situation. He never wanted to hear her screaming like that again.

 _Is this what it’s like for Mom, when I have my dreams?_ he wondered, then blinked back tears again as he remembered that, whatever it had been like for Mom, she wouldn’t be the one soothing him anymore.

The pilot Ric Olié told him about the landing protocols and the various controls in the cockpit.

Anakin appreciated the distraction, but he kept remembering the previous morning, what Padmé had asked. _“Was I pregnant?”_

In his dream, she had been sad and tired while she led an enormous army into battle.

In her dreams, she and her baby were murdered by some sleemo who wanted to destroy the Jedi and take over the galaxy.

He hoped neither of their dreams proved as accurate as his special ones tended to end up.

Coruscant had the energy of Mos Espa during Boonta Eve and none of the sand. He’d never seen so much gonzo machinery or wizard vessels, and his fingers itched to explore them. He wasn’t sure if the sights excited or scared him.

As they flowed with traffic, Jar Jar was staring out the viewport with stark terror.

“It’ll be okay, Jar Jar,” Anakin said. “Ric’s done this before.”

Ric chuckled. “That I have.”

Jar Jar made a worried noise.

Ric edged the ship through traffic and towards a landing dock by some large buildings.

Anakin looked down and realized the city continued down for hundreds and hundreds of meters. He yanked his attention up and swallowed hard.

They landed with the gentleness of a steady ship with an expert pilot. “Here we are,” Ric said.

Anakin smiled nervously and went to join everyone who was leaving the ship.

* * *

There was no time nor space for Padmé to switch places with Sabé before they docked, and Padmé would not have dared do so, anyway. Padmé was a handmaiden, as far as many on the ship were concerned, and therefore Padmé-as-handmaiden had to be in the party as they disembarked.

They did so smoothly, in formation.

Senator Palpatine strode up to Sabé with a smile, Chancellor Valorum in his wake, and bowed. “It is a great relief to see you alive and well, Your Majesty.”

Even now, _knowing_ that Palpatine’s smile to be part of his act, Padmé could not read it as anything but genuine. She didn’t let herself shiver.

Who would’ve thought that the practice hiding headaches and chill in her previous life would help her in this one?

“May I present Supreme Chancellor Valorum?” Palpatine gestured to the silver-haired man beside him, who was all the sincerity and worry without the charm.

Padmé glanced to Anakin, giving him a quick smile, and didn’t bother herself with examining Valorum. The man would soon be out of office, anyway.

Valorum, to his credit, greeted Sabé warmly, and Padmé wished she didn’t have to destroy his career. “It is an honor to finally meet you in person. I must relay to you how distressed everyone is over the current situation on Naboo. I have called for a special session of the Senate so that you may present your request for relief.”

Sabé held the regal poise appropriate for Queen Amidala and said calmly, “I am grateful for your concern, Chancellor.”

Padmé felt Anakin still looking at her and dropped him a quick wink.

Palpatine gestured towards a waiting air taxi, giving no sign that he found anything amiss—not that he would, at this point in his planning. “There is a question of procedure, but I feel confident we can overcome it…”

Thanks to the previous night’s memory dream, which had predicated her nightmare, she could quote everything Palpatine was about to say.

She discreetly beckoned for Anakin and Jar Jar to join them and resigned herself to a long, stress-filled day.

* * *

In the suite where she’d changed places with Sabé and was now meeting with her senator, Padmé thought she was about as bored as Jar Jar or Anakin, who had come along while Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan stood before the Council.

Palpatine loved to pile nice-sounding words upon nice-sounding words until the result was poison. He would use less of it with her, in years to come, after she proved able and willing to use her own mind despite it.

For the time being, he still thought her naïve and inexperienced enough to grab hold of the pretty and miss what he wasn’t saying.

She _had_ missed things, the first time. Just not as much as he’d thought she had.

Anakin was looking at her, again.

She felt it, but she didn’t look for him. She didn’t mind him eavesdropping—it was a distraction, something that made this differ from her first life, when she hadn’t been able to tell he was listening.

Besides, it meant she could remind him of this conversation later, and point out specific examples of outright manipulation. The education might help him, and he wouldn’t be able to argue that she’d misheard.

Palpatine didn’t falter in his monologue, which didn’t mean anything, but he didn’t falter in _anything_ , so he either didn’t notice or didn’t care about their observer as he ‘helpfully’ badmouthed the Republic and the Senate and even his own profession.

He then sighed as if exhausted.

_What would he do if I laughed in his face?_

The consequences would not be worth the momentary amusement.

“I must be frank, Your Majesty. There is little chance the Senate will act on the invasion.”

_Of course not. You have conveniently failed to request any proof of my allegations._

The Trade Federation had left communications intact during the blockade, initiating a blackout only when they were invading. There had been months of opportunity for someone—anyone—to suggest the Naboo compile records of what was happening.

He was waiting for her to say something. Where were they? Oh, Palpatine had played his ‘The Senate isn’t going to help you’ card.

“Chancellor Valorum seems to think there is hope,” she said dryly.

“If I may say so, Your Majesty, the chancellor has little real power.” The sadness and kindness he displayed could have won an acting award. “He is mired in baseless accusations of corruption. The bureaucrats are in charge now.”

 _Yes, because you orchestrated it._ She pressed her palms together so she couldn’t dig her fingernails into them. “What options have we?”

Palpatine paused, as if thinking, although he’d doubtless planned out this conversation months or years ago. Eirtaé had been her opponent in the election to be queen, and this was the kind of conversation intended to manipulate the naïve. The Sith Master still assumed that child rulers would be easy to lead.

“Our best choice,” he said, “would be to push for the election of a new chancellor—a strong chancellor, one who could take control of the bureaucrats and give us justice.”

He hesitated and added, as if it had just occurred to him, “…You _could_ call for a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum.”

She’d heard the pleasure in his voice at that one last time, too, and she’d gone with that option out of sheer desperation to do _something_. “He has been our strongest supporter.” She let her displeasure show. “Is there no other way?”

“Our only other option would be to submit a plea to the courts…”

“The courts take even longer to decide things than the Senate.” In other words, that not was an option that provided what she was looking for. “Our people are _dying_ , Senator. We must do something quickly before this gets any worse.”

The look Palpatine gave her was both sympathetic and condescending.

She’d found it far more annoying Before, since Qui-Gon had been treating her much the same. Now she found it more reassuring, as evidence that he still thought her so easily to beguile.

“To be realistic, Your Highness, I believe we are going to have to accept Trade Federation control for the time being.”

A smirk tugged at the edge of his lips. His nomination as chancellor would only strengthen that self-satisfaction.

She had met his stare before, but even if she hadn’t, she didn’t think she would have been able to resist doing so, this time. “That is something I cannot do.”

* * *

Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi stood before the full High Council a lot, and usually because of his master. He waited the appropriate step behind Qui-Gon and listened as his master made his report, much of it news to him, as well, since they’d split up on Tattooine.

“The one that attacked me was well-trained in the Jedi arts. My only conclusion as to what it could be is was a Sith Lord.”

“Impossible!” protested Master Ki-Adi-Mundi. “The Sith have been extinct for a millennium!”

 _Why hasn’t Qui-Gon mentioned the handmaiden?_ A Force vision, coinciding with such an attack, would only help his case. Especially a Force vision from someone so strong that she _should_ have been a Jedi—assuming the first blood sample he’d checked had been hers, and Obi-Wan had no reason to believe otherwise.

“I do not believe the Sith could have returned without us knowing,” said Master of the Order Mace Windu, voicing what they were all surely thinking, with how poorly Qui-Gon had supported his own argument.

Yoda snorted. “Difficult to see, the Dark Side is.”

The masters continued discussing the matter, their doubt palpable.

“There is more evidence,” Obi-Wan stepped forward and blurted, for they were arguing without full knowledge. He dropped back into place and looked to Qui-Gon, who was the one who needed to report it.

“More, you say?” Yoda prodded.

Qui-Gon sighed. “A young woman in the queen’s retinue has dreamt true at least once that I have witnessed personally—and she foreseen herself dying at the hands of a Sith.”

The screams that morning had been disconcerting. Since Qui-Gon had gone to help her, Obi-Wan had stayed in the cockpit and made sure that the approach to Coruscant continued smoothly.

He assumed one of the true dreams had led Qui-gon to gamble on the podrace, to get the ship parts and the boy—or, at least, he let himself assume as much, so he could defend his master once the gossip broke out. Qui-Gon often gambled on the Living Force, but most would find that rash and reckless without something more concrete supporting it. Even a vision of dubious origins would be better accepted by others than some instinct of his master’s.

Several Council members exchanged glances.

“She told you this?” Master Windu asked.

“Yes,” Qui-Gon said. “She also said the Sith wish to eradicate all Jedi and control the galaxy.”

“Hmm,” said Master Yoda, eyes closed as he reached into the Force. “Believe her, you do.”

“Yes, Master. She is a receptive telepath.”

Obi-Wan blinked in surprise—not that Qui-Gon hadn’t told him, but that he hadn’t noticed, himself. An untrained receptive telepath would be affected by the emotions and thoughts of those around them. The effects should’ve been noticeable.

Such a person would also be susceptible to manipulation, suggestion, and even mind control. Not good traits, in a queen’s trusted attendant.

“Then she should be brought to the Temple,” Master Windu said, “for a mind healer to give her protection.”

Somehow, Obi-Wan doubted Padmé would accept the Order’s offer. He would have to alert Queen Amidala of the danger she was in if her handmaiden refused to allow the Jedi to put the necessary blocks on her mind.

“I have also encountered a vergence in the Force,” Qui-Gon added.

Even Master Yoda’s eyes widened. “A vergence, you say?”

“Located around…a person?” Master Windu added quickly, to get clarification.

Qui-Gon nodded. “A boy. His cells have the highest concentration of midichlorians I have ever seen in a life form.”

His master was speaking of the blood sample with a count of over twenty thousand.

“It is possible he was conceived by midichlorians.”

Obi-Wan had witnessed Qui-Gon startle the Jedi Council several times, through the years, and in many ways. He’d thought he’d seen every tactic his master would ever inflict on the Council.

He’d been wrong. Serious reference to the fulfillment of milennia-old prophecy was a new one.

He had a bad feeling about this.

* * *

The time came for them to dress for the Senate meeting. Palpatine led the way out of his offices, and past Anakin and Jar Jar in the antechamber.

Padmé hesitated, wanting to say something, but Anakin didn’t yet know she was Amidala, and the decoy protocol existed for good reason.

Too many decoys would die in her place.

“Why don’t you come with us?” she heard Rabé whisper behind her. “This time you won’t have to listen from behind a door.”

That was the Anakin she’d married.

Padmé kept her smile inside, where it could warm her.

She had a feeling she would rely on that a lot, in the coming decade.

* * *

Padmé changed into the red gown and golden headdress that would be famous for years to come, after the speech she was about to give in it.

She stared at herself in the mirror, wishing to make a disgusted expression, but she had trained herself to display the proper calm and poise as long as the paint was on. A moment’s comfort was not worth breaking that conditioning.

She left the dressing room and fell into step with Palpatine and her guards, all headed for the Senate chamber where she was about to destroy a man’s career.

They entered the building, Anakin and Jar Jar trailing behind her handmaidens, and her feet kept her moving towards the too-familiar box for the Senator of the Chommell Sector.

_(“Wake up, Senators! You must wake up!”)_

“If the Federation moves to defer the motion, Your Majesty,” Palpatine said, back to the flattery of calling her ‘majesty’ now that she wasn’t displaying any evidence of original thought, “I beg of you to call for the election of a new supreme chancellor. I promise you, there are many who will support us. It is our best chance—our only chance.”

 _Chance for what?_ she was tempted to ask, but that would display more discernment than she could afford him to see, yet.

He _had_ planned well, she had to admit. Politicians on Naboo could begin effecting change as soon as they were elected, so he was banking on her ignorance of Senate process and inexperience with governmental bodies other than Naboo’s, expecting her to assume they all functioned like hers.

She’d never been _that_ naïve.

Padmé had called for the vote of no confidence out of desperation. She’d just been at her wit’s end and had to try _something_. She hadn’t actually expected it to work.

Soon afterwards, she would take a small crew and a single ship back to Naboo and end up retaking the planet. Palpatine would never realize just how little she’d believed him all along.

In the meantime, he was _still_. _monologuing_.

* * *

“The chair recognizes the representative from the sovereign system of Naboo,” Valorum announced.

Reality crystalized into a clear, multifaceted diamond of possibility, and Padmé _felt_ the edge of the precipice on which she stood.

Palpatine navigated the Naboo box towards the center of the arena. “Supreme Chancellor, delegates of the Senate,” he said.

She forced herself to endure his voice without sign of how much it grated on her. _How am I going to handle being a senator under his chancelorship?_

“A tragedy has occurred, one that began with a taxation of trade routes and has evolved into an oppressive and lawless occupation by the Trade Federation—”

“I object!” interrupted the Trade Federation’s representative, Lott Dod. “This is outrageous! I demand that he be silenced at once!”

“The chair does _not_ recognize the delegate from the Trade Federation at this time,” Valorum said firmly, a sharp edge to his voice.

Lott Dod retreated. _All part of the game Palpatine has scripted._

“To state our allegations, I present Queen Amidala, recently elected ruler of the Naboo, who speaks on our behalf.”

 _Recently elected?_ She was months into her term. She hadn’t noticed that as a jibe, Before—she’d known that most sentients were confounded by her people’s willingness to elect youth.

Old enough to respect tradition, yet young enough to be willing to effect change, when a situation warranted it. That was the Naboo way.

Well, at least that was the common rationale for why her people put children in politics.

He backed to the side, and Padmé stepped forward, the situation weighing on her far more than the heavy ceremonial garb she wore, and channelled the sadness and solemnity that she had felt Before, without the irritation she felt now. “Honorable representatives of the Republic, I come to you under the gravest of circumstances. Naboo’s system has been invaded by the droid armies of the Trade—”

“I object! There is no proof!” Lott Dod interrupted again. “I recommend a commission be sent to Naboo to ascertain the truth of these allegations.”

Which was an interesting move, in hindsight, and made her wonder if Dod had been a witting collaborator with Gunray, or an unwitting pawn, as she had been. _Not as unwitting as Palpatine thought._

“The senator from Malastare concurs with the honorable delegate from the Trade Federation. A commission _must_ be appointed.”

That was the law, yes—as long as she didn’t have documentation supporting her claims.

Documentation that nobody was asking for, despite certain subsections to the very law that they were referencing.

Blockade and invasion of this sort had been unusual enough at this time, so it was possible that nobody thought to ask, that they all assumed she—fourteen-year-old girl that she was—had brought nothing to prove her claims.

It was also possible that a particular Sith Master had maneuvered to keep anyone from thinking of or voicing it. Control of the Senate on such a scale was naught but a game to him.

Valorum’s microphone squealed. “The point—”

His vice chair, Mas Amedda, pulled his attention, whispering in his ear, and Palpatine murmured in hers, “Enter the bureaucrats, the true rulers of the Republic—and on the payroll of the Trade Federation, I might add. This is where Chancellor Valorum’s strength will _disappear_.”

Palpatine’s voice changed on that last word, gaining a malevolent self-satisfaction.

She _really_ hadn’t wanted to call for that vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum, last time. It had been betrayal of one ally to advance another, and she had expected it to destroy her career.

“The point is conceded,” Valorum said, sounding resigned. “Queen Amidala, will you defer your motion, to allow a commission to explore the validity of your accusations?”

She could present the evidence now…or she could make the speech that would make her famous.

Padmé considered the Sith Master beside her and chose the route she knew wouldn’t get her killed yet.

“I will _not_ defer.” She made her Force presence flare with temper and, deep down, felt grim satisfaction that she had right measure of sharpness to display the indignation she’d had, Before. “I have come before you to resolve this attack on our sovereignty _now_. I was not elected to watch my people suffer and _die_ while you discuss this invasion in _committee_.”

Padmé did not want to say the next words, but Palpatine _had_ to think her naïve and easy to lead, if she was to survive long enough to prevent Anakin’s Fall. “If this body is not capable of action, I suggest _new_ leadership is needed.”

Disgust and self-loathing filled her, but she didn’t let her aura display anything other than regret. “I move for a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum’s leadership.”

Ruckus resulted, reminding her of other times she’d seen the often self-righteous delegates driven to uproar.

_(“So this is how liberty dies. Amidst thundrous applause.”)_

“You see, Your Majesty, the tide is with us,” Palpatine said quietly in her ear, closer to the dagger in her sleeve than he knew. “Valorum will be voted out, I assure you, and they will elect a new chancellor—a strong chancellor, one who will not let our tragedy be ignored.”

_Lies._

Vice Chair Mas Amedda took the chancellor’s mic. “The chancellor requests a recess.”

Chancellor Valorum had done no such thing, and he was in no condition to do so. He was still in shock, blindsided by the sabotage from those he had supported.

The betrayal on his face matched what Padmé remembered, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I also appreciate the well-wishes. The season means I have less pain and motor difficulty, but things are still tough. Thanks for the thoughts, prayers, following elsewhere, or even just kudos/bookmarks/comments! :)
> 
> I hope you're doing well!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Captain,” she said, tasting the word—and remembered. “Oh, and then tell Captain Panaka to ready the ship. We’ll leave by morning.”
> 
> “To go where?” Sabé asked.
> 
> Padmé smiled grimly, aware that she might’ve already triggered some auxiliary plan of Palpatine’s that would be the death of her. “Where we should be.”
> 
> In the meantime, she had a chancellor to apologize to and a promise to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated 1/17/17, to fix Anakin being in 2 places at once & myriad typos

Padmé retreated with her retinue to the rooms that had been provided them. She signaled for Rabé to check for listening devices and received a confused stare in response.

Right. They hadn’t set up that protocol yet.

Probably better to leave them, anyway. One more detail that would fit with Palpatine’s presumption of her inexperience.

She instead sent Rabé to take Anakin to the Jedi Temple, and she summoned Jar Jar, in what was a change from last time. “The Senate is bogged down in procedure, and I fear it will be some time before they can give us help. I hope the Gungans will not suffer from the occupation.”

“Ehhh…” Jar Jar said as he thought, a vocal tic that would take much practice for him to get under control. “Mesa no think so. Gungans no die-en without a fight. Wesa got _grand_ army!”

Then his voice turned thoughtful, showing his intelligence to anyone who was paying intention. “Dat why yousen no liken us, mesa thinks.”

She let her lips curve into a slight albeit bitter smile. “I’m afraid not. We didn’t know the Gungans _had_ an army.”

Jar Jar blinked a few times, large eyes watery, then deflated. The Naboo were pacifists. If they’d disliked the Gungans on account of the army, then the disagreement was out of core ideologies and perfectly reasonable.

Without that underlying source of disagreement, it was just bigotry.

“I will do what I can to save both our peoples, Jar Jar. I promise you.”

He went still, then stared at her in confusion.

The bitterness fell from her smile. “I’m going to need your help, though.”

* * *

After dismissing Jar Jar with the promise to share more details with him when the plan solidified, Padmé summoned her handmaidens to reimplement the decoy protocol.

“Your Highness!” Sabé protested. “The recess can end at any moment. It is not my place to handle such a situation for you.”

She slipped out of her overdress on her own, since they still weren’t helping her.“Just congratulate Palpatine on his nomination, ask him who the other nominees are, and tell him—”

_(“My fate will be no different from that of our people.”)_

If she left out that speech, she could leave him thinking her an impulsive, reckless child for a while longer. He might even delete the recordings of this conversation without listening to them, convinced that they bore nothing of value, before she proved otherwise.

“Just congratulate him and ask him of the other nominees. There will be nothing more of value to say.”

She was forgetting something. Something to do with…

“ _Captain_ ,” she said, tasting the word—and remembered. “Oh, and then tell Captain Panaka to ready the ship. We’ll leave by morning.”

“To go where?” Sabé asked.

Padmé smiled grimly, for she might’ve already triggered some auxiliary plan of Palpatine’s that would be the death of her. “Where we should be.”

In the meantime, she had a chancellor to apologize to and a promise to keep.

* * *

Padmé didn’t know which handmaiden told on her—Rabé or Eirtaé—but Captain Panaka came to scowl at her as she and Sabé worked on the switch.

“At least take a guard,” he pressed.

“The queen needs her guards here. I will be fine. I know where I’m going.”

Granted, her knowledge came from some years in the future, but there had been few changes to that part of Coruscant in that time. That would have changed rather quickly Before, after her death. Palpatine would have wanted to make certain any recollection Anakin had of her was colored by some negative emotion, and keeping things as they were risked triggering nostalgia for pleasant memories.

“The city is dangerous.”

“ _Tattooine_ was dangerous,” she retorted, though she couldn’t disagree. She was just more aware of the dangers than she could admit to being.

“And if something comes up besides Chancellor Palpatine reporting the nomination?” Sabé asked.

“It won’t,” she said, then considered the spy devices that were surely recording the conversation. “You saw the combativeness of the Senate. There is nothing more I can do here. This is Palpatine’s arena, not mine.”

“Your Highness, I do not know what you hope to accomplish.”

“Fewer nightmares?” she said dryly.

That stopped their protests cold, but they still weren’t happy about letting her leave alone.

* * *

The Senate hadn’t changed much, by the time her terms as queen were up and she started serving her world as senator. It was easy to slip through the bustle by moving purposefully all on her own, and everyone ignored her.

 _Almost everyone,_ she corrected, caution prickling the back of her neck. She was being observed or followed.

 _Both_ , she thought.

Padmé didn’t double-check the blaster in her sleeve or knife against her thigh. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she continued towards Chancellor Valorum’s offices, even though the traffic—the witnesses—dwindled as she went.

The hall outside his office was empty.

Padmé glanced about, checking the vents, floor, and ceiling as much as she did the open hall itself.

Nothing.

She took a few more steps towards Valorum’s office, casually scratching her arm.

She ‘stumbled’ to the side as an assassin droid—a flying sphere equipped with a blast weapon—popped up out of the ductwork and started shooting.

She fumbled and whirled, shooting wildly as if she was confused…and ‘accidentally’ taking out the security camera in one of her shots.

A shiver ran down her spine as the sensation of being watched slithered away.

 _Let Palpatine think me competent_ now _._

With witnesses disabled, Padmé made short work of the droid.

A droid that hadn’t even tried to get past her and head for Valorum.

Palpatine had always included contingency plans in his work, covering a multitude of outcomes. Her apology visit to Valorum had apparently initiated a plan C, meant for whoever of her retinue left their suite.

She looked at the door to Valorum’s office and weighed the benefit of a personal apology for the vote of no confidence against the very real possibility that entering that room would trigger another assassination attempt.

Hmm. Another had probably _already_ been triggered, so Palpatine could seek to blackmail Queen Amidala by tying her to Valorum’s death.

Plans within plans within plans…

She needed contingency plans, herself. Palpatine did have a habit of killing anyone who discovered anything of value.

All the more reason to set up a few backup plans _before_ the Sith Master had reason or inclination to eye her too closely.

Padmé pressed her lips together, mulling on her options, then rang the door to Valorum’s office.

* * *

The soon-to-set sun glowed against metal of the city, as if the buildings themselves were living things, and not merely hosts for far smaller but sentient life forms that glowed in the Force, to Qui-Gon’s perception.

The Council was testing Anakin, who had been brought by a handmaiden, and Padmé herself had yet to arrive.

 _“This evening. I can visit the Temple then,”_ she had said. An innocent enough sentence, stating ability though not actually promising to follow through.

Considering the unpredictability of Senate meetings, she couldn’t have known she’d be free this evening.

However, she’d also let slip details that made him suspect her visions had been far more vivid—and had covered a far longer time—than she had been willing to let others believe.

“The boy will not pass the Council’s tests, Master,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “He’s too old.”

His Padawan was reminding him of what was normal, what was to be expected. Obi-Wan often did that, acting as counterbalance when Qui-Gon lost sight of how much he differed from the Order in general.

That insight was one of the reasons Qui-Gon had refrained from recommending Obi-Wan for the Trials, for he didn’t want to lose the company or wisdom of the man his apprentice had become.

But Obi-Wan also focused on the broad strokes and logic of the Unifying Force, not the minute details and instinct inherent in the Living Force that the Order claimed to follow but so often ignored, and Qui-Gon couldn’t afford to let the rules win. Not this time.

The Force _hummed_ about Anakin Skywalker, and the boy would find it with or without training. Without training, the dark side would ensnare and destroy him.

Qui-Gon shuddered. “Anakin will become a Jedi, I promise you.”

There was no other option. Maybe if Padmé’s grandmother hadn’t died…

“Do not defy the Council, Master. Not _again_.”

There were worlds left unsaid in Obi-Wan’s weary words. The Councillors knew Qui-Gon well and did not hold Obi-Wan liable for his master’s actions…but Obi-Wan had a defiant streak of his own. He’d just learned to hide it behind a mask of cooperation, for all their sakes. Sometimes the student had even covered for the teacher.

Qui-Gon knew without asking that this would not be one of those times. “I will do what I must, Obi-Wan.”

“If you would follow the Code, you would _be_ on the Council.”

Thereby being able to effect the changes he felt the Order needed, Obi-Wan meant, but Qui-Gon knew the job would not work that way. Not for him. For Obi-Wan, perhaps. Qui-Gon would be surprised if he wasn’t nominated for a Council seat before he turned fifty.

_He could’ve been well on his way to mastery now, if you hadn’t held him back._

The guilt was a common companion, when he thought of his Padawan. He had planned to apologize for that, someday, but now that his death seemed near… He did not want to sour their last few days together by giving Obi-Wan good reason to be angry with him.

“They will not go along with you this time,” Obi-Wan insisted.

Qui-Gon couldn’t help but smile and tease, “You still have much to learn, my young Padawan.”

He doubted he would live to see Obi-Wan tactfully and discreetly harangue the Council, something the young man would surely do once he had the experience and confidence of being a Knight in his own right. Obi-Wan would pointedly report to the Council, wearing the evidence of the consequences of an insufficient mission briefing. Or he’d point out directly that a certain choice would have caused fewer difficulties or casualties, letting them remind themselves that his failure to make that choice had been due to _their_ orders.

Obi-Wan would be far more accepted by the Council than Qui-Gon could ever be—and, he felt, would ultimately turn out to be far more radical.

* * *

The twelve Jedi Masters were different from Qui-Gon, reminding Anakin more of Obi-Wan, the woman who had taken Padmé into the private room, and the apprentice that had blocked them from entering the Council chambers without permission.

They held themselves with a calm, reserved poise that reminded him of Jira, but without her friendliness. Not that they seemed _un_ -friendly, exactly…

But they didn’t exactly _like_ him, and he could feel it.

 _They don’t know me,_ Anakin reminded himself. _Not yet._

If he didn’t become a Jedi, they might never.

The dark-skinned man in front was holding a handheld viewscreen, and Anakin had to tell him what he was seeing.

“A ship,” he sensed. “A cup. A speeder.”

The Jedi turned off the screen and gave a slow nod to the little green with the weird ears and who looked smaller than a Jawa. The nod was maybe a signal that he’d passed, or maybe just a passing of turns.

“Good, good, young one,” said the green one said. “How feel you?”

“Cold, sir.” It popped out before he could stop it, and he felt bad for saying it. He’d been cold ever since they’d left Tatooine, so the problem was with him, not their fault.

“Afraid are you?”

He had better control of his answer and said what he was sure they wanted to hear. “No, sir.”

“See through you, we can.”

Anakin cringed. Not what they wanted, then.

“Be mindful of your feelings,” said the one who tested him.

The one with the tall head clarified, “Your thoughts dwell on your mother.”

The relief at the explanation warred with the confusion at the rebuke. _Of course_ he kept thinking about Mom and how she’d react to things. Why wouldn’t he? “I miss her.”

The green one exchanged a glance with several others around the circle, so Anakin’s admission was significant, to them. “Afraid to lose her, I think.”

He was cold, tired, missing his mother, and apparently that last one was something these people affecting his future found problematic. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“ _Everything_ ,” the green one answered, which explained nothing.

But he continued, “Fear leads to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate…leads to suffering.”

He thought he understood that, but… Anger wasn’t the only thing that could come from fear. Slaves with good masters accepted their situation out of fear of a bad one; slaves with bad masters accepted their situation out of fear of a worse one.

And slaves were _always_ afraid of being sold far from their families and friends—which was sorta funny, because he’d been _freed_ far from his mom and his friends, and he wasn’t sure what was different. Others still controlled what became ofhim.

“A Jedi must have the deepest commitment, the most serious mind. I sense much fear in you.”

Anakin bit his lip. By the way they were measuring it, these Jedi would even call _Padmé_ afraid.

He took a deep breath and asked, “How does someone stop being afraid?”

“Trust in the Force,” said the one who’d tested him.

And the tall-head one added, “Release your feelings into the Force. All will ultimately work out, even if it isn’t in the way that we’d prefer.”

Maybe Anakin didn’t understand Basic as well as he thought he did, but what the Jedi said and what they meant by it seemed two completely different things, to him. “Thank you for your explanations, Master.”

A smile flickered in the man’s eyes. “You’re welcome, young Skywalker.”

“I’m a _slave_ , Masters,” he dared say, but even going that far made his breath get stuck in his throat.

He felt sympathy and encouragement come from a few of the Masters around him, so maybe they understood, after all. The sensation wasn’t as soothing as a hug from Mom, but it helped him add, “Of course I’m afraid. That doesn’t mean I _can’t_ trust the Force, like a Jedi needs to. It just means I have to learn how.”

“A slave, you _were_ ,” the green one said gently. “Believe, you do, that you can learn?”

Anakin didn’t trust his voice to be able to work, but he nodded…then remembered how they _actually_ preferred honesty and managed to give a shrug.

The encouragement came again, specifically from the woman behind him with the pebbles in her forehead and bridge of her nose. The man who’d tested him seemed to give her a sharp look, but the feeling only intensified, as if in a pointed protest.

“I _want_ to learn,” he managed to say. “I don’t want to end up causing suffering. And I want to help people.”

“Jedi serve the Republic,” the woman behind him said softly.

Anakin _felt_ the rebuke from the man who’d tested him, and the dismissal from the woman.

“Our Order is politically and legally tied to the Republic,” she said. “If you were to become a Jedi, you would have to accept that and its consequences.”

He felt amusement and relief from the councilor who’d been supplying translations, annoyance from the one who’d tested him, and curiosity from the green one. The others were a mix he couldn’t untangle.

“Do the Jedi help people outside the Republic?” he asked.

“When we can,” she answered. “Some of us even specialize in those missions specifically.”

A distinct _That’s enough, Depa!_ caught his attention, coming from the master who’d tested him.

Depa pointedly and kindly moved him off her mind, which made him realize he’d somehow been pressed against it.

“Oh,” he said. “Oops. Sorry.”

She gave a slight smile, her eyes on the green master who sat across the circle. “Shall we continue?”

* * *

Padmé ended up having to let herself in to the chancellor’s office, for Valorum was in no condition to admit her, himself.

_(“I thank you, Senator Amidala—and your friends—for bringing this to my attention.”)_

The last time she’d been in this office, Anakin had been standing to Palpatine’s side, a politician’s neutrality on his face.

She steeled herself, made herself focus on the differences in the room—on the décor and history on the walls, so different the austerity that Palpatine had preferred—and ventured further into the office.

“Are you here to kill me?” Valorum asked from where he slumped at his desk.

“Absolutely not.” Padmé pressed her hands together. She hadn’t known Finis Valorum well, but she’d overheard Jedi remembering him fondly even a decade after her actions forced him from office. “Queen Amidala sends her regrets for her motion on the Senate floor and hopes you understand that they were not meant as personal censure. She was advised that it was the best choice of action for Naboo’s situation at this time.”

“…What?” Valorum sounded even more befuddled than she felt.

She was going to have to be direct, after all, and hope she’d muddled things enough that the Sith Master still thought her a fool. “Senator Palpatine pressed her to call for the vote of no confidence.”

As difficult as betrayal was to witness from afar, it was even worse to see up close.

“ _Palpatine?_ ” Valorum’s voice cracked. “ _Why_? He was my friend—I trusted…”

“There are no friends in politics,” Padmé said, then flinched when she realized she was quoting something that Palpatine had never said aloud. “Or, in the very least, friendship does not always take precedence over diplomacy or expediency.”

Her own actions while spying on Rush Clovis came to mind, though Anakin had been the one to abandon the man to the people he’d betrayed to save her life.

A quiet whir caught her ear.

“You have been one of my queen’s strongest supporters,” Padmé said, “and she thanks you for it.”

“By destroying my career,” Valorum said bitterly.

A click confirmed what the whirring had made her suspect.

“By saving your life,” she countered quietly, and she shot the assassin droid as it burst through the hole it had cut in the window.

She hadn’t even had to look.

She didn’t fret about the cameras, this time. Palpatine would have only attacked the office while the system was conveniently glitching, so the breach could be blamed on poor security procedures or people. Otherwise, he would have to start his career by reconstructing the room itself, for his own safety—which would give others fodder to call him weak and paranoid, sabotaging his reputation.

He was a Sith about to set the stage for plans years in the making. He wouldn’t spit on his own foundation.

Besides, he wouldn’t learn the danger of hubris until after the Battle of Theed, where he would be defeated—humiliated—by the trickery of a child queen and the accidents of a slave boy.

No wonder Palpatine had hated Anakin and her so much.

“You’re a shadow,” Valorum said quietly, in realization, and though she didn’t know what he meant, the statement tugged at something in her memory. What was she forgetting?

Padmé inclined her head, deciding to let him keep his interpretation of events. “I don’t think there will be another attempt, but you should summon your guards.”

He nodded. “I thank you—and I thank Queen Amidala, for her consideration.”

After the polite signs of respect were given on both sides, Padmé left the office, headed for a particular little-known entrance for a maintenance tunnel that connected to the Jedi Temple.

It was time to fulfill her promise to Qui-Gon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying it. :-)
> 
> All reads, kudos, and comments are much appreciated. As are prayers and well wishes. :)
> 
> If you want to find more of my writing, I have original stories available. Find free ones on Wattpad @ Carradee, and available-for-donation ones on Patreon @ Carradee.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé was leaning against the wall just inside the door, poking at a data reader while she politely waited for an escort to take her further into the Temple.
> 
> She looked up as he approached, and her smile of greeting morphed into a frown. “Influencing others’ emotions without their consent is rude, Master Qui-Gon.”

 

The Council released Anakin from his test, and while they deliberated, Qui-Gon took him to the Healers’ Wing, for them to remove his slave transmitter and check his health. Obi-Wan came along, possibly to make certain Qui-Gon didn’t show the boy more of the Temple than was wise.

“What are you?” Anakin asked Obi-Wan’s friend, Bant Eerin, who smiled and blinked her large eyes.

“Mon Calamari,” she answered.

“Her kind are amphibians,” Qui-Gon explained. “They require regular immersion in water, so it would have been odd indeed for you to see one on Tattooine.”

Anakin’s eyes went wide. “ _Immersion_?”

He still hadn’t seen enough water in one place for that to be possible, Qui-Gon realized—an oversight he’d have to remedy.

He was about to promise a visit to the Room of a Thousand Fountains when a young Padawan he didn’t know approached. “Master Jinn?”

“I’ll be back, Anakin. Stay with Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon followed the youth to the exit, to receive the message in relative privacy, and Obi-Wan trailed along enough to be able to overhear without leaving Anakin. “Yes?”

“A ‘Padmé Naberrie’ is here to see you.”

Obi-Wan’s surprise didn’t show where anyone could see it without the Force. Qui-Gon glanced out the window, at the early evening outside, and appreciated the young woman’s punctuality. From how she’d answered his question about her training, he suspected she’d started her study of the Force at about the age Anakin was now. Bringing her before the Council could only help Anakin’s case.

“Thank you,” he said. “Where is she?”

The Padawan hesitated. “At the senatorial exit.”

Obi-Wan’s surprise was stronger, this time, and Qui-Gon shared it…though he realized he should have expected something like that.

“Which is fitting, since she is part of a Republic government,” Qui-Gon said finally, letting his calm soothe the disquiet of the sentients around them. “Thank you. I will meet her myself.”

The Padawan bowed and hurried out, and Qui-Gon left Anakin in his own Padawan’s care as he headed to fetch the handmaiden.

On the way, he placed a call on his comlink and asked Knight Labooda to meet him in the Healers’ Wing, where Bant and Obi-Wan were, and alerting her that someone who claimed to have been found by her in a Search would be there.

Qui-Gon didn’t think Padmé had been planted by a Dark Side user, but a little caution could not be remiss.

He reached the exit that was generally known by Jedi with duties that meant they sometimes needed a quick route to the Senate building, and sometimes by senators who needed to contact the Jedi.

Padmé was leaning against the wall just inside the door, poking at a data reader while she politely waited for an escort to take her further into the Temple.

She looked up as he approached, and her smile of greeting morphed into a frown. “Influencing others’ emotions without their consent is _rude_ , Master Qui-Gon.”

He’d forgotten about the calm he was projecting.

“Handmaiden.” He gave her a slight bow and adjusted his shields. “I meant merely to smooth over discomfort caused by your unexpected familiarity with our entrances. No offense was intended.”

Padmé drew in a sharp breath and muttered a creative curse in Huttese.

He blinked, startled. He hadn’t realized she understood the language, for she’d said nothing of it on Tattooine. Judging from her accent and word use, she was even more conversant in the language than he was.

Why would a young handmaid of Naboo—a peaceful yet wealthy world, known for its support of the Republic and willingness to aid refugees—know the language of the Hutts?

She rubbed her head, and her sleeve caught his eye. He’d noticed her clothing was dirty and mussed, but he’d assumed it was intentional, as part of a disguise.

Disguises didn’t usually include scorch marks, nor blaster burns on the skin beneath.

He stepped forward and gently caught her wrist before she could dodge him. He pulled it forward to indicate the burn. “Is everything all right?”

Padmé tugged her arm from his grip and looked at it, expression clinical and distant as if she hadn’t noticed the injury until he’d pointed it out. “Oh.” She adjusted her sleeve to hide the burn. “It’s fine. The queen’s safe.”

He lifted his eyebrows, but gestured for her to walk with him towards the Healers’ Wing. She did so, comfortable despite the many Jedi surrounding her.

But not, he noticed, so familiar with the Temple that she knew the Healers’ Wing.

In fact, when recognition did hit Padmé, she froze midstep, staring in a room where some Initiates were being walked through how to heal a burn from a training saber.

One girl, a Mirialan about Anakin’s age, jerked her attention their way and nearly fell over from the side effects of an improperly broken healing trance.

“Initiate Offee,” said the instructor, a female gran Qui-Gon knew only by face. “With a more significant injury, you could have permanently damaged both your patient and yourself.”

The girl cringed.

“You must _focus_ , Initiate,” the instructor said, and Qui-Gon recognized the tone of someone beginning a lecture.

Padmé hesitated, expression conflicted, then stepped inside. “Please don’t be too hard on her, Master Jedi. She reminded me of someone, and I was thinking rather loudly.”

The instructor frowned. “It is the duty of a Jedi to be free of distractions.”

“And it is the duty of the Initiate to learn proper technique, so they can later practice it in spite of distractions,” Padmé replied smoothly, both indicating familiarity with Jedi arguments and reminding him of Obi-Wan.

An expression he couldn’t read flashed over her face.

 _You’re right_ , he heard. _That_ did _sound like Obi-Wan._

Padmé had exchanged only a few words with his Padawan, not nearly enough for her to be able to imitate Obi-Wan that well. That meant she’d seen him in her visions.

Something in Qui-Gon relaxed at that confirmation that the upcoming death would be his, that Obi-Wan would survive.

Initiate Offee glanced uncertainly at her teacher, Padmé, and him.

Padmé smiled ruefully and bowed politely to both teacher and student. “Knight Leem. Initiate Offee.”

The handmaiden’s expression froze, but she smoothly left the room. Qui-Gon glanced at the pair, then hurried after his guest.

Padmé was still wearing a polite smile, but her expression was frozen. “Initiate Barriss Offee,” she murmured, voice flat, “and Knight Maks Leem.”

She gave him a humorless grin, gaze unfocused, and her tone didn’t change. “Knight Leem is better at fighting than she’s comfortable with, and Barriss doesn’t cope well with drugs or clones but survives things that destroy Masters.”

Qui-Gon caught the different degrees in formality between the two—indicating that the handmaiden had seen more of the Initiate than the Knight in her visions—and wasn’t sure what to say. “Cloning is illegal.” _And immoral._

Padmé inclined her head in acquiescence as they walked. “For now.”

Her casual words filled him with disquiet.

Fortunately, they reached the room with Anakin, who was telling Bant about the podrace he’d won.

Padmé smiled, relaxing, and stepped towards the bed Anakin sat on, though Qui-Gon caught a flicker of recognition when she saw Bant. He entered enough to be out of the way, but stayed near the door, so he could observe everyone.

Then Anakin saw Padmé, and the boy lit up. “Padmé! I got tested by the—”

His gaze locked on Padmé’s arm. “What happened?! Was it the Sith? Wait—no, that’s from a blaster, not a laser sword, so…” Anakin looked up at her, blinking owlishly. “But that isn’t how the Sith killed you, either, is it?”

Padmé blanched, fear and horror roiling in her as she stared through Anakin.

Obi-Wan was closer and reached out towards her.

“No!” Anakin said quickly. “Not her shoulder! That’ll make it worse.”

The boy had noticed that, too, then.

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened slightly, but he touched the back of Padmé’s hand, instead. “My lady?” he asked kindly. “What happened?”

Padmé was smiling even before her distracted gaze swung towards Obi-Wan. “Just an ass bucket. Don’t worry, General—I took out the camera first, just like you always tell me to. No need to add any more gray hairs.”

The warmth in her voice kicked Qui-Gon in the gut, even while it confused the others around them. _She knows him—him and Anakin both._ And Obi-Wan would live for a while yet, if he was going to start going gray.

Anakin’s dominant emotion was worry, but fear was building, too.

Obi-Wan was confused, but he merely exchanged a glance with Bant and kept on smiling. “What’s an ass bucket?”

Padmé frowned…then blinked a few times, quickly, and paled even further. Her arms were shaking. “Anakin, what did I say?”

Her arms were shaking, but her voice came out firm.

A suspicion entered his mind.

“You said…” Anakin swallowed. “You said you were attacked by an assassin droid that didn’t have an AI.”

Pink tinged the handmaid’s cheeks.

Qui-Gon was starting to wonder if she was really a handmaid. “My lady,” he said quietly. “Do you know what you are?”

She lifted her eyebrows at him. “Naboo, female, Force-sensitive… Let me know when I’m getting close to what you’re asking.”

He smiled. “Your Force talents,” he clarified, and her flinch concerned him. “Do you know what they are?”

Padmé pressed her lips together, and her poise and her color returned to normal. She considered not answering—he could _see_ her considering not answering—then shrugged. “A talent for perception and the influence thereof runs in the family.”

“Your mother never mentioned that,” said Knight Labooda from behind him.

Padmé didn’t flinch, so she’d sensed the Knight’s approach. “Why would she? Jedi distrust voids. Admitting that some of the Houses of Naboo produce voids would’ve been counterproductive.”

Her knowledge of the Jedi term for people who could vanish from others’ perception and sometimes memories made him unsure what he feared more: that she’d learned it from her grandmother, or that she’d learned it in the visions where she obviously had good relations with members of the Jedi Order.

“You aren’t a void,” Qui-Gon said gently. Voids didn’t appear in the Force at all.

“Watto didn’t see me,” she said, resigned, and then she lit up. “Watto didn’t see me!”

There were a few possible ways that could’ve happened, but none of them made her a void. Perhaps he should’ve at least introduced her and Quinlan on Tatooine. He could’ve done it without breaking the young Knight’s cover, and they would probably get along.

In the very least, Quinlan could introduce her to the concept of Force camoflauge, which Qui-Gon suspected was far closer to whatever the young woman had done.

She deflated, rubbing her temple. “Okay, now how did I do that?”

Obi-Wan studied her with masked surprise, and Bant and Knight Labooda did so with some alarm.

Bant, though, focused on what was immediately important, and reached for Padmé’s injured arm.

Bant was Mon Calamari, Jedi, and healer. She was used to dealing with sentients who didn’t desire the care she provided. When she reached for the young woman, it was with the focus, speed, and skill of someone who had much experience and the backing of the Force.

Padmé still slipped out of her grip.

“Healer Bant Eerin is skilled in the healing arts,” Qui-Gon said gently, making sure to give the name so Padmé would have an excuse for knowing it. “Your arm needs tending.”

“If it isn’t cleaned and bandaged properly,” Bant added, “you’ll risk infection and scarring.”

Padmé shook her head. “I’ll have worse. It’ll keep.”

“What about the Initiate?” Qui-Gon suggested, a bit unnerved by the self-taught young woman’s deft use of her Force abilities but knowing it was the example he would need, before the Council. “Would you allow her to tend you?”

Padmé’s mien went cold. “Absolutely not.”

Qui-Gon stared in surprise. With how familiarly the young woman had spoken of the Initiate, he’d expected them to be friends, in her visions, not…whatever this was.

Perhaps a change in topic would help her settle. “If you won’t allow the burn to be treated, would you let Bant verify your midichlorian count? I need to check something.”

Padmé frowned. “My count is—”

“It was not what you told me it was,” he interrupted smoothly, and she accepted that with far less annoyance than she’d displayed with his previous interruptions. “Perhaps it was my equipment.”

Her doubt was obvious, but she rolled up the sleeve of her unhurt arm, not even wincing as she aggravated her injury.

Bant scowled at her. “There’s no need to hurt yourself.”

Padmé just glanced uncertainly at Obi-Wan. “I apologize for my confusion, earlier. I shouldn’t have burdened you with that.”

Qui-Gon stepped forward and took the blood sample, himself, for the midichlorian count.

Bant ran the test. “Twelve thousand, five hundred.”

Knight Labooda startled. “I don’t remember it being quite that high.”

“It wasn’t,” Padmé said, voice still steady, but her fear was palpable. “Ten thousand, two hundred—that’s what it was.”

“How could it have changed?” Obi-Wan asked Bant.

“Something to do with my visions, perhaps.”

“What makes you say that?” Knight Labooda asked, stepping around Qui-Gon to approach the young woman. “Did something happen to you before they started?”

Padmé studied her, then glanced at the rest of them, her expression frozen into a political mask. “Might we have this discussion in private? Under counselor-counselee confidentiality?”

Did that mean Knight Labooda was going to die soon, too?

Everyone was looking to him, and Qui-Gon realized he had seniority over all the other Jedi in the room. “It’s your choice,” he told Knight Labooda.

The woman nodded, considered Padmé, and led her to a private counseling room.

* * *

Sar Labooda died in the First Battle of Geonosis, Padmé remembered, just as Maks Leem and Barriss Offee survived it.

Focusing on that helped her keep from dwelling on the realization that a higher midichlorian count could affect how Palpatine perceived her, responded to her. How he would try to kill her.

Twelve thousand was still paltry compared to Anakin’s twenty-three, but it was still significant, and the very fact that it had changed so much… She shuddered. Palpatine would want to investigate that, if he learned of it, and that would bring the sort of attention that could easily get her killed early.

Knight Labooda sat in one of the two chairs in the room, both wide enough to fit a multitude of types of sentients.

Padmé politely shut the door behind them and took the other seat.

The blaster wound on her arm was a minute thing, twingeing when she thought about it—and twingeing _mildly_ , at that.

The silence stretched into minutes.

Jedi Knight Sar Labooda stretched. “Something happened to you, before your visions started?”

Padmé nodded.

“What was it?” the Jedi asked.

She looked the woman in the eye, feeling the filial bond that Labooda didn’t even know existed between her and her sister, the Jedi Master and Councilor Depa Billaba. “I died.”

Padmé told Knight Labooda the truth—that she’d been murdered sometime in the future by a Sith Lord, a powerful man who was influential in the Republic that she didn’t want to identify until she had enough evidence to stop him.

Knight Labooda, in keeping with standard Jedi philosophy, assumed her words were more metaphorical than literal—and also that what she’d experienced was necessarily a possible future, rather than what would definitely happen if things weren’t changed.

The shift in Padmé’s midichlorian count was ignored, on the assumption that there had been a flaw in the initial blood test when she was an infant. That could protect her from Palpatine…if he hadn’t already memorized her level on record.

The woman also assumed that Padmé’s description of her previous life were mirages, parts of visions that she’d confused with her own life.

That was all right. Knight Labooda was unimportant enough in Council politics that Palpatine wouldn’t think to notice her, but the Council would heed to her report if Padmé was murdered early.

And then the Jedi would know to investigate. Carefully.

As far as contingency plans went, it wasn’t ideal. But it was better than nothing.

* * *

When the Council summoned Qui-Gon for Anakin’s results, he collected Obi-Wan and Anakin and knocked on the door for the room where Padmé had gone to speak with Knight Labooda.

Young Anakin was antsy yet solemn. “That isn’t good, is it? Padmé getting confused?”

“She’ll be all right,” Obi-Wan soothed. “The mind healers will help her.”

Anakin frowned. “What if Padmé doesn’t want their help, either?”

“Then we’ll talk to the queen,” Obi-Wan said. “We’ll contact her family, if we have to. Her current mental state is untenable. She will understand that. And then we’ll do what we can to alleviate whatever concern she has about Jedi Healers.”

Qui-Gon realized that Obi-Wan was worried, too, though he was hiding it well enough that it didn’t show. _He should have been a Knight years ago._

He needed to fix that.

For now, though, he had to make sure Anakin ended up a Jedi. And that meant he needed a particular young woman who he suspected was the Queen of Naboo in disguise.

He knocked again.

Anakin was staring at the door, a morose slump in how he held his shoulders. “I think it was me.”

Something in Qui-Gon froze, as he processed but didn’t want to understand the boy’s words.

“What do you mean?” Obi-Wan asked.

“In her vision. She keeps having it around me. I think I’m the one who kills her.”

“Anakin!” Qui-Gon protested. “It is a Sith Lord, who kills her in her vision. You are going to be a Jedi, not a Sith.”

Anakin looked down. “Doesn’t mean I’ll _stay_ a Jedi,” he mumbled.

Qui-Gon had no idea what to say to that.

The door opened, and he had to move out of Padmé’s way. “We’re headed to the Council. Will you come with us?”

Confusion flickered in her eyes, but she inclined her head in acceptance. She turned back and gave a slight bow to Knight Labooda. “Thank you for your time. May the Force be with you, Master Jedi.”

“And with you,” the Knight answered.

Padmé turned and started in the correct direction for the High Council chambers, with Obi-Wan and Anakin. The three of them together felt disconcertingly _normal_ in the Force.

“Master Jinn?” Knight Labooda asked.

He lingered, letting the others outdistance him. “Yes?”

“I don’t know if even the mind healers will be able to help that one,” the woman said, and Qui-Gon felt a chill. “The damage happened too long ago.”

“Too long?” He wasn’t certain if he was more horrified or worried for Padmé. She was so _young_.

“It’s been at least four years,” Knight Labooda said. “If Master Windu sees her, perhaps his insight into her shatterpoint might prove more useful.”

Qui-Gon hated to ask Mace to do that.

He found he hated the fact that Obi-Wan and Anakin could lose a good friend before they could even get to know her, even more.

“I will ask him.”

* * *

Padmé couldn’t remember if she’d ever been in the Council chambers before, but she’d certainly heard them described. She’d known where in the building it was, and Anakin had certainly griped enough for her to expect the convoluted route. When combined with what she knew this time about Jedi history and her ability as a receptor dish, finding the chambers was easy.

Entering the chambers was another matter.

The Senior Padawan on duty—a male Zabrak that Padmé didn’t recognize—was politely but determinedly blocking her and asking what business she had with the Council. Obi-Wan waited patiently for Qui-Gon to come address the matter. Anakin had squirmed at first, but settled into an uncomfortable stillness.

Padmé actually found herself glad for the excuse of the Padawan blocking her way. Proximity to Jedi Masters wouldn’t give her migraines anymore, like they had during her first life, but she could remember the old headaches all too clearly.

There was also the matter of knowing how many of them had died.

“There’s no need to be nervous, my lady,” Obi-Wan said kindly.

_(“Please do what you can to help him.”)_

Padmé went cold. “It would help if you didn’t call me that.”

He nodded in acceptance. “Very well, Padmé.”

_(“He was deceived by a lie—we all were.”)_

She held her breath a moment so she wouldn’t cringe. “Not that, either.”

“All right.” He adjusted his sleeves and glanced at the Padawan who was politely blocking their way until the authorization came for their entry. “What would you like me to call you?”

_(“I’m so sorry.”)_

She swallowed hard. “I think it will be better if you don’t talk to me at all, right now.”

Padmé clutched the japor pendant, forcing herself to cling to the good memories.

There were so many more bad ones.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He_ was the Sith in Padmé’s vision. Anakin was sure of it.

Anakin felt sick.

 _He_ was the Sith in Padmé’s vision. He was sure of it.

He wasn’t a Sith now, and he didn’t want to be. He couldn’t imagine ever being one—or ever killing anyone, much less _her_ —so he didn’t think it happened soon. Maybe it was after he married her, and the baby was his.

Which meant that he had killed her and their baby together. Could kill. Might kill.

Anakin swallowed hard. He’d promised Padmé that he protect her, and he’d meant it. But how did somebody avoid becoming a Sith? He still didn’t really understand what a Sith _was_.

Qui-Gon strode up. “What’s the matter?” he said to the person standing between them and the entrance back to the Council chambers, a Zabrak who looked around Obi-Wan’s age.

“Master Jinn,” the person said, single long braid pressing against their shoulder. “The Councilors summoned you, Padawan Kenobi, and Anakin Skywalker. Not…”

“I asked Padmé Naberrie to join us.” Qui-Gon reached as if to touch her shoulders in pointed acceptance, but thought better of it. “Are they ready to see us?”

The Zabrak studied Qui-Gon, glanced at Obi-Wan, then gave a shallow bow to them all. “The Masters will see you now.”

He stepped aside, and the large doors opened without anyone touching them, again.

Qui-Gon nudged for Anakin to precede him. Anakin looked back to see Padmé still holding the japor snippet so tightly he was afraid it was going to cut her palm. She was staring through the entrance to the Council chamber—not blankly, but not as if she was entirely _here_ , either.

Obi-Wan had hesitated by her and was glancing at Qui-Gon as if hoping for help.

Anakin winced, remembering Padmé’s request that Obi-Wan not talk to her. That didn’t make sense, with how friendly they obviously were in whatever she had seen.

 _Maybe that’s why you did it,_ something whispered within Anakin. _Maybe the child wasn’t yours._

He shivered. Even if that was true, it didn’t excuse him _killing_ her.

She needed someone to speak to her, to draw her attention from wherever she was in her head, right now.

Anakin turned away. He was a former slave and a future murderer. He didn’t have a right to help an angel like her.

“Handmaiden?” he heard Obi-Wan said quietly, apologetic.

Quick steps, too small to be Obi-Wan’s, caught up behind them. Anakin didn’t let himself turn around, unsure what he feared more: that she might be staring at the Council, or that she might be staring at _him_ again.

Anakin sensed surprise and concern from the powerful beings surrounding them.

“Qui-Gon?” asked the large, dark-skinned human man who was one of the few who had spoken aloud to him. “Who is this?”

“I am Queen Amidala of— _E chu ta_!”

The Huttese startled Anakin so badly that he spun around and stared before he remembered what he was going to do to her.

Padmé was gripping her head, her fingers buried in her hair. “I apologize, Masters Jedi,” she somehow managed to say through grit teeth. “I am _a handmaiden of_ Queen Amidala. I seem to be experiencing some difficulty.”

“Confusing where you are with what you have seen?” Qui-Gon asked.

She sighed, rubbed her temples one more time, and dropped her hands, tired but composed once more. “I suppose…” She frowned, eyes narrowing. “ _Oh_. There’s a Force Suggestion up here.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked the Jedi Council member who’d explained things during his test. From the descriptions Obi-Wan had given him when Qui-Gon was seeing to Padmé and the mind healer, that was Ki-Adi-Mundi.

“I’ve been having some really bad dreams, and a particular person has evidently decided it would be fun to mess with my head.” Padmé tapped herself on one temple. “Pray excuse me for a moment while I straighten this out.”

Seconds passed in silence, and Anakin held himself still despite his nervousness about this test results.

Padmé let out a small pained sound, and he clenched his fists, wanting to protect her from whatever had hurt her.

The most important thing he had to protect her from was himself.

She turned to Obi-Wan. “Can you…say it, again?”

“Padmé, what happened to your arm?” His smooth voice was concerned and kind and soothing, what Anakin imagined a father was supposed to sound like.

His stomach twisted. Even if Obi-Wan _was_ going to be the one who made Padmé’s baby, he’d be a better father than a murderer would.

She squinted for a few seconds, frowning. “I think I’m okay.”

“No urge to call me general?” Obi-Wan asked, in good humor.

Padmé focused directly on the green one—Yoda—for a few seconds, then smiled in relief. “No, I’m okay.”

The back of Anakin’s neck tingled. She wasn’t lying…but she wasn’t telling the truth, either.

“Qui-Gon,” said the dark-skinned man in front of them, who had tested Anakin with the viewscreen—Master Windu. “What is this?”

“Padmé Naberrie is the handmaiden I told you of earlier, the one who has seen visions of being murdered by a Sith.”

Anakin and Padmé both winced.

“I know you think Anakin too old to begin training, that he will be unable to learn our ways.” Qui-Gon gestured to her. “Miss Naberrie has taught herself from _stories_ , Masters. I did not expect her to provide such an immediate, direct example of her ability, but she demonstrated that even an older Sensitive can learn to use the Force without Darkness.”

Padmé lifted a finger, signaling for Qui-Gon to wait. “I think the anchor is actually a Chalactan technique.”

Master Windu exchanged glances with both Master Yoda and with Depa behind the four of them in the middle of the chamber. The pearls affixed to the center of her forehead and the bridge of her nose were golden, and Anakin wondered what they meant.

Qui-Gon drew himself straighter. “I point this out, Masters, because the boy is too strong in the Force to be left untrained. Miss Naberrie is evidence that such training is possible, despite his age.”

“Trained her, did you?”

Padmé shook her head. “I only met Master Qui-Gon a few days ago.”

“There is already too much anger in the boy,” Master Windu said.

Anakin felt the refusal, and he swallowed back disbelief and betrayal. Qui-Gon hadn’t said the Jedi might not accept him—and from their responses, Qui-Gon should’ve known they wouldn’t.

He’d left his mother to become a Jedi, and now he would not have even that.

Anakin blinked back tears. Was this what had made him end up a Sith, in Padmé’s vision?

“Oh, gods,” Padmé muttered, rubbing her head.

Qui-Gon shifted where he stood, moving behind Anakin.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Padmé told him, with an almost feral smile.

Qui-Gon’s large, warm hands fell on Anakin’s shoulders.

“Don’t say it,” she warned.

Qui-Gon gave his shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Then I take Anakin Skywalker as my Padawan Learner.”

Shock washed through the chamber.

Anakin himself felt uncomfortable. What _was_ a Padawan Learner, exactly? And why did this feel so much closer to Watto giving orders, rather than being given a choice?

“An apprentice, you already have, Qui-Gon,” Master Yoda said sharply. “Impossible, to take on a second.”

“The Code forbids it,” Master Windu added.

“No, the _Teyan Apologia_ advise it, but that is not the Code,” Padmé said sourly. “And I think the example of Grandmaster Nomi Sunrider illustrates that your protests about Anakin’s age and emotions are little more than excuses.”

Uncomfortable silence filled the room. Anakin had the sense that Padmé’s knowledge of Jedi history made them uneasy, but why would that bother them?

Qui-Gon spoke up first. “Obi-Wan is ready.”

 _Ready for what?_ Anakin wondered—but from the surprise and hurt that jolted Obi-Wan, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“I am,” Obi-Wan said quickly, obviously knowing what Qui-Gon was talking about. He glanced at Anakin and Padmé, and added, “I _am_ ready to face the Trials.”

That would’ve been a nice explanation of what they were talking about, if Anakin had known what ‘the Trials’ were.

“Ready, are you?” Master Yoda asked sharply. “What know you of ready?”

Anakin didn’t have to look at Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan to know they were unhappy, even angry with each other. And that it was his fault.

Qui-Gon took a deep breath. “He is head—”

“Doing it again,” Padmé grumbled.

Qui-Gon took another breath and let it out slowly. “Obi-Wan _is_ ready.”

“Our _own_ counsel we will keep on who is ready,” Master Yoda replied.

“Then I will keep Anakin as my ward and allow Miss Naberrie to teach what she can.”

“Doing it again,” she murmured.

Qui-Gon smiled. “I said I would allow you, not that you necessarily would. But you will, won’t you? I’ve seen you meditate. Your technique is solid, only in need of practice.”

Desperation lurked behind Padmé’s glances at Qui-Gon, at Anakin. “There’s no time. The queen is going back to Naboo.”

The surprise and worry in the room increased, so that wasn’t a good thing.

“Going back?” Qui-Gon asked, startled. “Why?”

“Returning to Naboo will be dangerous,” Obi-Wan pointed out. “The Trade Federation will seek to force the queen to sign the treaty.”

“I will—” Padmé’s teeth clicked as she snapped her mouth shut. She stayed silent for a few seconds, then seemed to resign herself to something. “The queen will sign no treaty. Her fate will be no different from that of her people.”

Qui-Gon frowned thoughtfully. “This is matching your dream, again?”

“Not quite.” She gave the Jedi Master a wild grin, eyes glittering with something dangerous, but her voice was calm. “Different audience.”

“Handmaiden,” Master Windu said, “please impress upon the queen that she needs to stay here, for her own safety.”

Disgust filled Padmé, but it didn’t seem directed at the Jedi, and her voice turned grim. “Her mind is set, Master Jedi. We leave tonight.”

Silence fell on the room again, this time pensive, and the assembled Councilors glanced among themselves.

The seconds stretched into minutes, and Anakin shifted his weight to keep from cramping. How did they all stay so still? Was it a Jedi thing?

No, Padmé was doing it, too. She gave him a quick smile.

Master Windu then looked Qui-Gon in the eye. “Now is not the time for this. The Senate will vote tomorrow for a new supreme chancellor. When Queen Amidala returns home, it could put pressure on the Trade Federation.”

“And draw out the queen’s attacker,” added the man with the tall, odd forehead.

Master Windu glanced at the other Councilors. “Go with the Queen to Naboo and discover the identity of this dark warrior who attacked you. That is the clue we need to unravel this mystery.”

Padmé sighed softly.

Master Yoda, though, was nodding slowly in agreement. “Decided later, young Skywalker’s fate will be.”

Anakin swallowed, feeling adrift and uneasy as the conversation continued—the Council had gone from rejecting him outright to postponing judgment—and as if he’d missed the significance of something very important.

_What just happened?_

* * *

Padmé had intentionally avoided giving her speech to Palpatine, but she’d ended up saying it all anyway.

_(“It is clear to me now that the Senate no longer functions.”)_

Okay, so she hadn’t said _everything_.

She was still annoyed by the Force Suggestion she’d found just below the surface of her mind, though it explained why Palpatine hadn’t felt threatened when she’d returned to Naboo, Before. It felt as if he might’ve been working it in from their first discussion, when he’d first suggested she call for the vote of no confidence.

She hadn’t noticed him planting it. That made her uneasy.

At least Palpatine had _wanted_ —did want—her to go back, expecting Darth Maul to be able to kill her.

She was also grateful yet concerned that, when the conversation drew to a close, the Jedi Masters around her had obviously forgotten all about the start to the meeting. For a self-taught non-Jedi to recognize Force Suggestion and even be able to unwork it…

The Council should not have let her leave so readily.

 _Is this my ability to hide what I don’t want them to focus on, or is Palpatine already influencing them?_ She considered what she remembered of the Jedi Council, and grimly realized that there was another—and quite likely—option.

 _Never underestimate sentients’ ability to delude themselves,_ she reminded herself, _or to ignore facts they don’t want to face._

The doors to the Council chambers closed behind them, and Qui-Gon paused.

“I am sorry, Obi-Wan,” the Jedi Master said quietly. “That was poorly handled.”

She sighed at the dodged responsibility inherent in the phrasing of his second sentence, but at least the first one was good. The Jedi claimed to hate politics and empty words, yet they could manipulate grammar and verbiage with aplomb.

Anakin had never been good with that…possibly because nobody had thought to make allowances for his native language and upbringing. They hadn’t known to.

“Are you more comfortable with Basic or Huttese, Anakin?” she asked, so the idea would be brought to Obi-Wan’s attention.

He jumped, as tense and uncomfortable as he’d been since she’d spoken with Knight Labooda.

Qui-Gon had turned quickly, too, and looked at her and Anakin. Obi-Wan obviously shared the startlement, but she only knew that from the Force and from recognizing his curious glances.

“Anakin?” Qui-Gon asked.

Anakin chewed his bottom lip and shrugged, staring at the tile floor. “I don’t know. I mean, I can use both.”

He cast a quick glance her way but told Qui-Gon, “Huttese. I guess that’s something I can work on, while…”

He swallowed, and his face twisted as if he was trying not to cry. “So I’m too old to be a Jedi. Why did you say I could choose it?”

“Give them time, Anakin. They’ll come around,” Qui-Gon said.

Padmé pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t take Palpatine’s place of souring Anakin’s trust in the Jedi Order, but… The ways Anakin had changed for the worse in the ten years between this week and their wedding made a lot more sense, now.

The Council had feared him from the start, Qui-Gon had lied and stolen and defied all law— _How does he even count as a Jedi?_ —and even she could feel Obi-Wan’s wariness.

Had Obi-Wan even gotten a chance to grieve properly, after Qui-Gon was murdered, or had the Council just saddled him with a Padawan he didn’t want and expect him to handle both their trauma?

“What if they don’t?” Anakin asked Qui-Gon, then he hesitantly turned to her. “What happened in your vision?”

Padmé froze.

“I don’t mean when—” He swallowed. “Did Qui-Gon train me to be a Jedi?”

Her gaze darted to Obi-Wan before she could stop it.

“Visions don’t usually work like that,” Obi-Wan said politely, though his body language said he’d caught that something else was going on. “They show specific instances, impressions—imagery that can be more symbolic than literal. And they often don’t make sense until after the event has happened.”

Qui-Gon nodded. “That is my understanding of prescience, as well, but Obi-Wan has more experience with it.”

Anakin hesitated and glanced at her, again. “But you saw Obi-Wan as a general. How’d that happen? Was it in your army?”

 _“I’m so sorry”_ echoed in her head.

Something brushed her arm, and she dodged and had her holdout blaster in hand before she realized that it had been Qui-Gon.

She closed her eyes and put the blaster away and hoped she hadn’t upset the children down the hall too badly. “My apologies, Master Jedi.”

“I wasn’t going to bring this up now,” Qui-Gon said quietly, “but you need a mind healer. This is interfering with your ability to do your job.”

He was right that she needed help. That didn’t mean she had to accept his solution and ignore the consequences.

Who had she known among the Circle of Healers? She could think of very few Jedi who would accept what was in her mind—and fewer who wouldn’t respond to it in self-defeating, suicidal ways.

And what about her husband? If anyone glimpsed what Anakin could become, they’d imprison him in the lowermost cells and destroy the kind, loving man that he deserved to be—that he would have been, if not for how he’d been traumatized and manipulated from childhood.

The answer, she realized, was to have her healer be someone who would have incentive to insist her memories were false or at most improbable.

But none of those people were mind healers, except for Barriss—a ten-year-old Initiate who would probably snap under the strain and try to blow up the Temple a decade early.

Which put her back at getting a therapy droid, which would be so much slower and take more effort…assuming she could discreetly get one with programming that would accept the ‘time travel’ premise. Even claiming Force visions would probably trigger some sort of protocol that would report her as incompetent—or at least send a report to Palpatine. She could easily see him inserting such spyware into assembly lines, to keep him abreast of potential threats.

Come to think of it, such spyware would also explain particular assassinations that had happened, Before.

Padmé rubbed her temple. “The dreams _have_ worsened unexpectedly. I’ll attend to it when this situation is over.”

Qui-Gon frowned. “Handmaiden—”

“When the situation is over, I’ll seek help. I promise.”

He still didn’t look appeased. “Your Highness—”

_(“We can only protect you, Your Highness. We can’t fight a war for you.”)_

“—tell me you are not Queen Amidala.”

She stared at him.

The Jedi Master smiled at her. “If you are not in fact the queen, say so explicitly.”

She dared not give direct evidence of her own ability to lie outright to a master of the Force. “You Jedi put that much faith in your ability to detect deception or the lack thereof?”

He tilted his head. “You don’t?”

“Not all deception is driven by the need to hide something or trick someone. The most insidious of deceptions are driven by the urge to share certain carefully-selected truths, thereby leading someone into a lie that you have never said without the speaker stating a single untruth.”

She looked him the eye. “And some sentients can lie outright without triggering a Jedi’s senses, so the degree to which you Jedi rely on your abilities is foolish, to me. Perhaps it is a consequence of ‘Do or do not; there is no try’—which places all fault of failure on the person acting, not on how situations and persons can bear their own responsibility.”

“You have not answered my question.”

“You made a request, not a query.” Well, he’d actually given her an order, but he’d meant it as a request.

She glanced about the hall, but the few Jedi around them had settled into ignoring her blaster-wielding flashback with depressing swiftness. Denial and suppression of what they didn’t want to address ran strong amongst them. “How soon can you be ready to leave?”

“We can leave immediately,” Qui-Gon answered.

She should’ve expected that, she realized, even though Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan hadn’t even gotten a chance to visit their own rooms. Rooms that Qui-Gon would never see again.

She bit her lip, torn between wanting to give him an opportunity to revisit a favorite place for the last time and needing to get things back on script, before she damaged too much.

Qui-Gon met her eye and gave a slight nod as he gestured for them to move onward, towards the exit.

He already knew he was going to die. She had to give him the credit of realizing that much. It wasn’t her fault he saw fit to accept it rather than ask how it could be avoided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I am caught up to the last chapter I have fully drafted! The next one is a bit over half done. Just have to sit down and write it.
> 
> Aside from the usual pain management and work stuff, what have I been up to?
> 
> I've been working on a dark cyberpunk short story for [Patreon](http://patreon.com/carradee) (which is almost done); trying to come up with a Christmas story (which is what I asked my muse for when it gave me that dark story); keeping up with _A Fistful of Air_ on [Wattpad](http://wattpad.com/user/carradee); and converting one of my original short stories into gamebook and visual novel formats (the former being more functional right, now, but the latter looks nicer).
> 
> I _think_ there are only about 3 more chapters in this book altogether, but we’ll see.
> 
> Hope y'all are having a fantastic holiday season! :-)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The boy is dangerous!” reached her ear from near the boarding ramp.  
> She stumbled to a stop and stared, disbelieving that those words had come from _Obi-Wan_.  
>  Anakin’s later distrust of Obi-Wan and idolization of Qui-Gon had never made more sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! :-)
> 
> Some of this chapter is un-beta'd, so I beg your pardon if it has more typos than usual.
> 
> I hope everyone's had a great Christmas!

It was easier to find and flag down an air taxi than she remembered—when she was senator, drivers had avoided the Temple, for some reason, and she wondered if the change would be due to a particular Padawan’s nervewracking piloting skills.

The ride to the landing platform was quiet, uneventful. Padmé appreciated the breather and chance to rest, although tension still flowed between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan.

She took advantage of her proximity to Anakin—whose presence in the Force was bright enough to hide anything she was doing—to adjust some of the tiers in her mind, to try to reduce the flashbacks. Last thing she needed was another panic attack in the middle of the Battle of Theed.

When she finished enough to pay attention to their location once more, they were at the platform. The Jedi were already by the boarding ramp, Anakin was standing near her, the taxi driver was waiting for her to get out.

“Thank you,” she told the driver as she hopped onto the landing platform.

The driver flew away with a speed that reminded her how uncomfortable many people were around Jedi.

Padmé smiled at Anakin, and they started for the ship.

“The boy is dangerous!” reached her ear from near the boarding ramp.

She stumbled to a stop and stared, disbelieving that those words had come from _Obi-Wan_.

“They all sense it,” Obi-Wan continued to Qui-Gon. “Why can’t you?”

Obi-Wan’s ultimate point, Padmé sensed, was that Qui-Gon was ignoring the other Masters’ concerns rather than addressing them or even considering their validity. Young Obi-Wan was just tired and irritated and frustrated by how Qui-Gon had handled things, and his words weren’t _quite_ what he’d meant. All Force-sensitives were dangerous, and he was concerned that Qui-Gon had lost sight of that.

But those words were what Anakin had heard.

“His future is uncertain,” Qui-Gon corrected. “That doesn’t mean he’s dangerous.”

Anakin’s later distrust of Obi-Wan and idolization of Qui-Gon had never made more sense.

“The Council will decide his fate,” Qui-Gon continued. “That should be enough for you. Now get on board.”

Infantilization, much?

Come to think of it, the only time Qui-Gon allowed Obi-Wan to display his competence was when the Jedi Master needed it, which was mainly in battle.

She narrowed her eyes at Qui-Gon.

“Obi-Wan!” she called. “Wait!”

Qui-Gon frowned at her. “Handmaiden—”

“You are treating _Anakin_ with more respect for his person and intelligence than you are your own Padawan, whom you owe an apology.” Anger chilled her voice. “Obi-Wan asked you a legitimate question—Force-sensitives _are_ dangerous, and you appear to be ignoring that. Perhaps, instead of treating your apprentice as if he’s younger than I am, you should meditate on why you find his displays of logic and competence so threatening.”

Qui-Gon’s attitude worsened rather than settled—to be expected, she supposed, when someone let their anger run hot. He was doubtless used to others being intimidated by his size and status, but she’d faced down _Sith_.

Obi-Wan whipped back towards them, aghast.

Memory flashed from him to her, of Qui-Gon ready to murder the man who had killed his beloved friend Tahl—so reminiscent of Obi-Wan’s own fury when Magnus killed Siri and of Anakin’s when she’d betrayed him.

Obi-Wan’s expression turned startled, and another sort of chill washed through her. She hadn’t broadcast that, had she?

Qui-Gon stepped forward—and Obi-Wan was somehow between them.

“I’m sorry, Master,” he said quickly but softly—and what that response said about how _long_ he’d been coping with his master’s abuse gave her goose bumps. “It’s not my place to question you about the boy.”

Yes, it was. He was Qui-Gon’s apprentice, not his lickspittle.

There was _no reason_ for Obi-Wan to apologize to Qui-Gon for anything he’d said. He’d expressed concern politely and in a reasonable amount of privacy. Wasn’t his fault that she and Anakin had overheard.

“Having some difficulty with your peace, Master Jedi?” she asked, as smoothly and as ready to fracture as ice. Surely a self-professed master of the Living Force would recognize a pointed reminder of ‘There is no emotion; there is peace.’

Qui-Gon glared at her for the space of a few heartbeats. Then he pivoted on his heel and outright stalked up the ramp.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Padmé said dryly, even while she wondered why his reaction to this rebuke had been so different from the other ones.

 _His other ones didn’t focus on his treatment of Obi-Wan_ —so he was at least partially aware of what he was doing. He wasn’t malicious, so there was some other reason fueling the actions.

Good intentions didn’t make the behavior any less cruel or abusive.

Concern pinched the edges of Obi-Wan’s eyes. “That was unwise,” he said quietly.

She had enough confidence in her own instincts to be unconcerned about the few blaster bolts Qui-Gon had defended her from, last time, if he was petulant enough to let his irritation interfere with her safety. (He _probably_ wouldn’t be that unprofessional, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility.)

She was a bit more concerned about the Sith—Qui-Gon could Fall to the Dark Side instead of falling in combat—but he still wasn’t likely to survive.

And if he _did_ survive… Well, then she’d have to figure out how to make sure Anakin didn’t become or stay his Padawan. Obi-Wan was a much better fit.

She considered Obi-Wan. Despite lacking the full serenity he’d have in ten years, he still met her scrutiny with a Knight’s calm.

“I noticed that Qui-Gon claimed Anakin as his Padawan without his consent,” she said. “Is that normal?”

Such dictatorship certainly fit some things that happened during the war, but…

“Oh, no,” Obi-Wan said. “Initiates can refuse to be a person’s Padawan.”

That made her feel better—as it did Anakin, she noticed.

“But there’s so much risk of not becoming a Padawan at all that the refusal of an offer is pretty much unheard of.”

Distaste punched her in the stomach.

“Wait,” Anakin said. “You mean even people who grow up at the Temple don’t always end up Jedi?”

“That’s right,” Obi-Wan said quietly, something in his voice suggesting that he didn’t like it, either…or that he’d nearly been one of those failed students.

Padmé considered the Knight he could be now and the Master he would someday be, and she felt tempted to march back into the Council chambers and give them all a good scolding for their _stupidity_.

But she _couldn’t_ do that. She had to stay in their good graces, not give them further reason to fear her or dismiss her as some form of gray Force-user, to be avoided or shunned or blacklisted.

Although…Qui-Gon technically qualified as gray, yet he was treated as if purely of the light, so there was a political aspect to the matter. She could navigate politics.

If she was to keep in the good graces of the Jedi Order, she needed to get far more adept with Jedi bureaucracy and relationships than she’d been last time. Somehow. Even though she was technically a rogue Force-user, by their standards, so they’d naturally view her with suspicion—suspicion that would surely worsen once they discovered she was actually the queen.

 _Leverage. I need some kind of leverage._ She glanced between Anakin and Obi-Wan. Friendship with them _might_ help, but she needed something more to balance against any attempts the Council might make to railroad her.

 _Who came to Qui-Gon’s funeral?_ She’d have to look up the Council members and see if she could discreetly encourage them to like her, despite their wariness. Expressing anti-slavery sentiments would probably help, though she had a vague sense that one Councilor was quietly in the slave trade. She’d only overheard it in a passing comment—Eirtaé conversing with…Luminara?—and probably hadn’t ever caught the Master’s name.

Arranging to ensure that the various Councilors knew particular details wasn’t manipulation, exactly. It was a tactical release of information. Persuasion, really.

Padmé’s alliance with the Jedi Order had always held a tension in it, even Before. Her lack of awe and willingness to confront them with the same respect and poise that she would show any other politician had been as unsettling as it was refreshing.

Yoda had liked her.

She wondered if he’d still like her, this time.

She was still mulling on that as they entered the ship.

* * *

The image had been a flash, but Obi-Wan couldn’t shake it.

Siri, slumped and dying from a blaster wound—Obi-Wan himself looming over the bounty hunter Magnus, who reminded him of a mission he did his damnedest not to think about—from the perspective of Padmé herself, witnessing his anger and fearing that Obi-Wan would murder the man before he recollected himself.

The handmaiden—or queen, or whatever she was—hadn’t been afraid of him. She had been afraid _for_ him, had seen something in his anger that she outright recognized.

Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin, who was poking at the bowl of stew that the handmaiden Rabé had handed him for dinner with about as much enthusiasm as Obi-Wan was expressing for his own food. Had she recognized it from the boy? Or…

Might her sternness with and dislike of Master Qui-Gon because she’d had Force visions what _he_ could do, when he lost his temper?

Obi-Wan made himself take a bite. His body needed the fuel, particularly with the battles they’d surely be facing on the other end of the trip.

No, he decided. Padmé had been startled by what had escaped him, of Balog’s arrest. So she had witnessed something else, not Qui-Gon’s slips of temper.

He brought up the image of the furious blond man with the glowing yellow eyes, accusing her of betraying him—a vision that had unsettled her far more than the other one—and he looked at Anakin again.

Something must have gone very, very wrong for him to end up like the man in the vision.

Obi-Wan wasn’t certain they were the same person, of course, but instinct said they were.

Instinct also told him that the breadth and clarity to Padmé’s visions were well worth his consternation. His own precognition was developing a reputation for its accuracy, and his visions were far shallower than what he’d seen from her.

Padmé was no older than a junior Padawan, and she’d grown up without the comfort of being surrounded by other Force-users. And her visions were like _that_?

He restrained a shudder and took his meal over to Anakin. Qui-Gon’s blatant favoritism wasn’t the boy’s fault.

There wasn’t room for anyone else to sit, but the boy glimpsed him and automatically pulled himself and his food into a smaller position to give Obi-Wan the better part of the space.

He remembered doing much the same thing, himself, when he was young. When others shunned him, for having left the Order and bringing all junior Padawans’ loyalty into question. When Cerasi died and Nield turned the Young against him. When Bruck bullied him and he’d come so close to thirteen without a prospective Master.

Obi-Wan reached down and moved Anakin’s things back how they were, then used the Force as if it were a table holding his own meal.

The boy blinked. The few Naboo in the room (the handmaiden and two pilots) glanced at it or watched, and their auras indicated curiosity and interest, no fear. He therefore let a slight smile show and indulged in a few flourishes, like summoning another roll of bread to his hand.

“Jedi can do that?” Anakin asked in astonishment. “Can _I_ …”

The boy’s bright emotions dulled so abruptly that Obi-Wan frowned.

“I guess I shouldn’t even try,” the boy said. “Since it’s so dangerous.”

Obi-Wan winced. “I apologize. You weren’t to hear that.”

“What, that you think I’m dangerous? Kind of important to know, isn’t it? I mean, if I _am_ …”

Rabé was giving him a cool look, and the pilots were frowning.

“ _Everyone’s_ dangerous,” Obi-Wan said. “We all have the potential to harm others. Some of us are just born with more innate ability or into more aggressive situations than others. My master sometimes forgets that.”

“Oh.” Anakin stared at his stew as he poked at it. “And I have both risks.”

That wasn’t what he wanted the boy to get out of the conversation. Obi-Wan drew a steadying breath and admitted, “So do I.”

The boy wasn’t the only person staring at him.

Obi-Wan tried, but he couldn’t bring himself to mention what had come of Melinda-Daan. Not with the vision of Siri’s death so vividly reminding him of Cerasi’s. And the vision kept him from being able to focus on any other example enough to be able to share it.

“You’ve seen horrible things,” he said, instead. “Things you could do nothing about.”

Anakin nodded tentatively.

He let out a heavy breath. “ _Everyone_ has situations like that. Jedi, because of the work we do, see more than many. We do what we can, but…we have limits.”

The boy frowned, but the look in his eyes said that furrow in his brow was thoughtfulness, not disagreement. “Everyone makes their own choices,” he said. “And you can’t always stop people from making choices that hurt others.”

Obi-Wan’s precognition flared, flashing an image of the two of them a few years older and smiling over a game of dejarik, and he _felt_ something shift in the Force.

“Yes,” he said, focusing on the positive in that shift, rather than the disquieting implications of the Padawan braid on vision-Anakin and lack of one on vision Obi-Wan, himself. “Precisely.”

* * *

What did that woman think she was _doing_?

Qui-Gon was _trying_ to meditate, trying to focus on all the living beings on the ship that gave him ample opportunity to do so, but his mind kept spinning back to Padmé’s outright sabotage of his relationship with Obi-Wan.

He was soon to die, according to her visions—which he had no reason to doubt. What benefit was there to apologizing to Obi-Wan for anything?

Moreover, they had a Sith to fight, and triggering another rough patch in their relationship would only hurt their bond. It was _stable_ —something he’d never been able to take for granted—but Padmé was doing her damnedest to make sure it wouldn’t stay that way.

 _Is this why I end up dead?_ he wondered. _Because a woman too young for the burden on her shoulders decided to meddle where she wasn’t wanted or needed?_

There was no benefit to mulling on the question, but he couldn’t get it out of his head.

 _‘It’s been at least four years,’_ Knight Labooda had said of the damage to Padmé’s mind. _‘I don’t know if even the mind healers will be able to help that one.’_

She’d also asked him to have Mace look for the woman’s shatterpoint, and he’d forgotten to do that.

Qui-Gon decided to take advantage of the late hour to seek a quiet spot to quietly make the call back to the Temple. The throne room lacked the pilots he’d find in the cockpit, but it did have Jar Jar. The Gungan was snoring and obviously asleep.

Using the queen’s communicator, he called the personal line for Jedi Master and current Master of the Order Mace Windu, who picked up after a short enough wait that he hadn’t gone to bed yet.

Even through the holo, Mace’s scowl and disapproval were palpable. _“Qui-Gon, the question of the boy’s training is something that will be determined later, by the Council as a whole.”_

“I’m not calling about that.” Why would Mace assume he was?

 _“Oh.”_ The disapproval drained, leaving exhaustion behind. _“Then can we get to why you’re calling? I have a full schedule, right now, and too little time to sleep as it is.”_

Qui-Gon double-checked that no Naboo were listening, then asked, “Did Padmé have an obvious shatterpoint? Knight Labooda suggested that she be checked for that.”

 _“Sar met her?”_ Mace rubbed his forehead. _“I’ll talk to her, then. We might have to wrap up your mission with getting the queen to send her handmaiden back with you.”_

“I believe she actually _is_ the queen.”

“ _Body doubles? Clever._ ” The man sighed. _“If the queen is Force-sensitive enough to notice and remove a Force Suggestion from her own mind, she’s going to be targeted for that alone. I’ll talk to Tholme and Cin.”_

That meant Mace was thinking of setting up a Shadow and possibly a Watcher to Naboo.

Naboo was in the Mid Rim and generally safe, and Qui-Gon had ensured that his Padawan had sufficient training for both tasks. “Obi-Wan _is_ ready to take the Trials, Mace. I know I’ve not said anything, but I’ve been worried. With how Tahl died, and then what Jenna Zen Arbor did, and…”

 _“And Micah,”_ the other Jedi said gently. _“We know, Qui-Gon. Adi’s Padawan is from Obi-Wan’s class, and she’s about to be among the last to take the Trials. Did you think we wouldn’t notice that one of the top Padawans of his generation is not yet a Knight?”_

Qui-Gon blinked. “But you haven’t said anything. When I just brought it up before the Council, Yoda—“

_“You’ve been too afraid to let him go, Qui-Gon.”_

He stared at the holo. _Afraid?_ He’d been _concerned_ , yes, but—but Mace wouldn’t listen to Qui-Gon’s arguments even if he gave them. “If that were true, why would you let it continue?”

Mace’s expression admitted without a word that there were Reasons, and Qui-Gon didn’t have the proper clearance to hear them. He would have to go after Tholme for the explanation, then, if he somehow survived.

“Make sure whoever you send to Naboo is patient. Padmé outright _scolded_ me. Insisted I needed to apologize to Obi-Wan.”

His friend held his silence for a long moment. _“You do._ ”

He gave a flat look that would surely come through the holo. “There _is_ a Sith, Mace, and this mission is dangerous enough as it is. My relationship with my Padawan is stable. I don’t need to so anything to unsettle that. You know how he gets.”

The silence was pointed.

Qui-Gon frowned. “I have the queen to protect and the boy to watch. I don’t have time to coddle Obi-Wan’s pride.”

_“Kenobi grew up years ago. The only pride you’re protecting is your own.”_

“I—“

_“I need to sleep, Qui-Gon. We can continue this conversation when you get back. Good night, and may the Force be with you.”_

Mace signed off, leaving Qui-Gon dangling midargument in front of a deactivated communications unit. He would’ve suspected his friend had conspired with the queen to harass him, but they hadn’t quite said the same thing.

And they were still wrong. Obi-Wan’s quickness to criticize Anakin made that clear.

If the young handmaiden who was probably the queen decided to scold him again, he was going to return the favor.

* * *

Padmé found a list of the current members of the Jedi High Council, handed it off to Panaka and Eirtaé to have researched separately (what differences would there be, between the data each found?), then succumbed to exhaustion.

When the dreams hit, still showing her what had happened the same day Before, Padmé wasn’t sure if she should be reassured that she hadn’t changed anything significant, or worried that she’d keep having them no matter what she did and changed over the next umpteen years.

* * *

Jedi cloaks were warm, or maybe that was just the Padawan who had noticed Anakin’s shiver and frowned, then handed his cloak as a blanket and settled beside the nook that Anakin had found to sleep in.

The warmth was nice, and the comfort made him think of Mom…who was still owned by Watto and on Tatooine. He fought tears. “I don’t want to be a problem, sir.”

“You’re not a problem,” Padawan Kenobi said, matter-of-factly opening his arm to invite Anakin to settle against his side.

Anakin didn’t accept the offer. “But I got Master Qui-Gon mad at you.”

Some emotion flickered in Padawan Kenobi, a blend that Anakin was used to feeling from fellow slaves—not something he expected to sense from a _Jedi_. “You aren’t responsible for our argument.”

“But it was about me.”

Padawan Kenobi stayed relaxed where he sat, but tension pricked his aura, and he looked Anakin in the eye. “Qui-Gon is responsible for his own actions. _Everyone_ is responsible for their own actions.” He paused. “Usually.”

He winced. “I’m sorry. Everyone _of sound and free mind_ is responsible for their own actions.”

Anakin stared. He _had_ to be misunderstanding.

“For example, if Watto had ordered you to sabotage our hyperdrive, he would have been responsible, not you.”

“Even though I did it?” Anakin asked, making sure…

Padawan Kenobi’s aura held the calm expectation and acceptance of the question, even while it tightened in disquiet and sadness. “Yes,” he said. “Even if Watto didn’t make a direct threat, refusal to obey would have resulted in harm to you or your mother. You know this.”

That calm and quiet admission gave Anakin the courage to ask, “How long were you a slave?”

The Jedi let out a long breath that admitted Anakin had understood that right.

“Never long,” Padawan Kenobi said. “But it could have been.”

Freeborn slaves usually fought at first, from what Anakin had seen. It took a while for the resignation to set in, the acceptance that even if someone was looking for them, they probably weren’t going to be found or freed.

And Padawan Kenobi had experienced that _more than once_.

The Jedi was still freeborn and free, so he still didn’t think like a slaveborn, but he _understood_ that. He even paid attention, and he tried to explain.

“What are the Trials?” he asked slowly, groundwork for the question forming in his mind. Did he dare ask?

“Which—oh, you mean the ones we were talking about in the Council chamber. I’m sorry. That must have been _really_ confusing for you.”

That was somewhere else Padawan Kenobi differed from Master Qui-Gon. He understood that his attempts at explanation didn’t always work.

“The Trials of Knighthood are tests that Padawans must face and pass in order to become a Knights. There are multiple methods of doing it—difficult missions, for example—but ultimately, the Padawan is tested in spirit and competence. The goal is to ensure that only people who are suited to the Jedi way become Knights.”

Anakin considered his words. “That’s the goal, but it doesn’t always work that way?”

Padawan Kenobi gave a little chuckle. “Unfortunately, no. The Masters are as fallible as anyone else, so sometimes the missions they assign as Trials don’t serve quite the purpose they intend.”

“Have _you_ had a mission like that?” Was he going to be a Knight soon enough?

The Jedi looked away, to the wall in what reminded Anakin of trying to hide an expression from a master. “I have had one in particular that could be considered my Trials, judging from how it compares to the Trials some of my friends have had. But the Council has to determine that, and they do have reason to be more wary with me.”

Anakin tried to imagine what calm, collected Padawan Kenobi could have possibly done. “Did you…hurt somebody?”

The Jedi eyed him. “That isn’t what you wanted to ask, is it?”

He shook his head.

Padawan Kenobi nodded once—that acceptance, again. “I have borne some responsibility for several sentients’ deaths. I was a few years older than you the first time someone I knew died—died in—“

The Jedi winced and drew an unsteady breath.

“It’s okay.” Anakin then took him up on the previous offer to be a human pillow.

Padawan Kenobi adjusted to help Anakin’s head hit more muscle than bone. “When I was thirteen, I left the Order to join a war. I returned some months later, but my dedication and commitment are suspect.”

Anakin thought he understood what the Jedi meant, even though he didn’t know all the words.

“Jedi _do_ kill or hurt others, but it is something to be avoided when we can.” Padawan Kenobi gave a little smile. “You know, you’re better with Basic than you think. You just notice different things than most people.”

“Because I’m slaveborn?” Voicing that question didn’t make Anakin anxious at all, and it solidified his resolve to ask the question he wanted.

“That’s probably part of it,” he said. “We all learn things from how we’re raised. Being able to understand and communicate with people outside our natural framework requires learning their presuppositions and jargon and—oh, dear.”

They exchanged a tired grin and chuckle.

“I’m doing it again,” Padawan Kenobi said through his smile. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem,” he replied, then he made seriousness return, so his question wouldn’t be thought a joke. “Hey, um… If the Council says I can be a Jedi, would _you_ teach me?”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan stared at the young boy that Master Qui-Gon very much wanted to train. “I’m sorry. I must have misheard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Thank you very much to everyone who leaves comments and such.** I am one of those "allergic to the world" folks who's effectively a shut-in, so online communication is how I get to socialize.
> 
> This chapter hasn't really been beta'd, so **please pardon the typos** …and the late-in-day posting. The short version is I spilled boiling water on my hand Friday, and the weekend was when I'd slotted to work on this, so… :/
> 
> The longer version is that PLUS the weather has warmed up, letting things blossom and pollenate again, which means my allergies are active. Some of these affect muscle function. Realizing your legs aren't working at the moment because you try to stand up is "fun". I also had some accidental parsley exposure on Saturday, which didn't help matters.
> 
> It actually hurts to move my fingers and type, now.
> 
> * * *
> 
> updated 1/18/17, to fix typo and unclear stuff

Obi-Wan stared at the young boy that Master Qui-Gon very much wanted to train. “I’m sorry. I must have misheard.”

“I know you’re not a Knight yet,” Anakin said, so he _had_ just asked Obi-Wan to train him. “But you should be soon, and Padawans can get trained by Knights, right? Not just Masters?”

He wasn’t sure if he was more unsettled by the prospect of training someone so strong in the Force…or by how Qui-Gon would respond when he found out the boy’s preference. Obi-Wan could accept Qui-Gon’s ire, but his Master would feel betrayed by Anakin, too. This was not a good time for that to happen. “You know that my Master _wants_ to train you.”

Anakin pulled in on himself. Why did he…

Oh. He thought Obi-Wan was rejecting him. “I just mean that the Council would probably encourage you to choose him. He has a lot more experience than I do, and he does very much want to be your teacher.”

The boy fiddled with the cloak. “I like how you explain things.”

Obi-Wan held out his arm in offer to let the boy lean against him, again. Anakin considered him, probably gauging his sincerity, before reluctantly accepting.

“I’m glad that you find me helpful,” he told the boy. “I hadn’t thought about taking an apprentice yet. Knights rarely take apprentices until they have at least a few years’ experience.”

Anakin’s frown deepened, his forehead furrowing with thought. “Is this about the commitment thing? You don’t know when you’ll be Knighted, or even if someone will want you to teach them? So you aren’t letting yourself plan it?”

Obi-Wan hadn’t considered the matter in quite those terms, and the boy’s suggestion rang true. “That may have something to do with it,” he admitted. “One of my friends met his future Padawan when he was your age. He’s been training her for a few years, now.”

“ _My_ age?” Anakin said. “So she came to the Temple, and he met her?”

Obi-Wan shook his head and considered what was public knowledge about his friend. “Quinlan was already a Padawan when he found her on a mission, and he and his Master brought her to the Temple. He was Knighted in time to take her as an apprentice, when she was of age to become a Padawan.”

The boy mulled on that and had apparently caught enough details to notice that the described situation had to differ from what he’d been told about the Jedi norms. “So…I’m not the only special case?”

“No,” Obi-Wan said. “Every generation has a few unusual students, for various reasons. It isn’t something we talk about. We focus on what makes us united, not on what makes us different.”

That was a gross oversimplification of the matter, but Obi-Wan was tired, and more detail could wait until it became relevant.

“In any event, we have a long day ahead of us. Try to get some sleep.”

Anakin gave him a serious look that said he knew Obi-Wan was going to bear a lot of that, and he pulled away. “Thanks, but, you should go lie down.”

“I’m fine, Anakin.”

“Yeah…” The boy adjusted to lean against the metal wall and shivered again. “I’m not the one who’s gonna be fighting tomorrow. You need to be comfortable.”

Obi-Wan pointedly adjusted position where he sat, with his back against the wall, and made clear he didn’t plan to go anywhere. “Good night.”

Anakin watched him suspiciously but gradually relented into letting Obi-Wan’s arm be a pillow. He used a gentle Force nudge to help the boy slip into sleep.

Maybe it was the fatigue, or maybe it was just that he knew all too well what a young Force-sensitive could get up to in the middle of a war zone, but Obi-Wan found himself mulling on the fact that the Council hadn’t actually forbidden _him_ from teaching Anakin anything.

* * *

Dreams of preparing for the Battle of Theed woke Padmé early. She roused Sabé and arranged her plan even before they had breakfast, then fetched food for the two of them.

Captain Panaka and Master Jinn were waiting for her when she returned to the throne room, juggling food and a few flimsiplasts she’d grabbed to help make sure she didn’t confuse timelines.

“The moment we land,” Panaka said, “the Trade Federation will force you to sign the treaty.”

“I agree,” Qui-Gon said, and the lack of displeasure in his voice meant he wasn’t sure that Padmé was the queen, so he couldn’t be sure she was behind the action. “I’m not sure what you’re hoping to accomplish.”

Padmé slid Sabé a glance as she passed the other woman her breakfast.

“We will take back what’s ours,” Sabé said, catching the cue.

Panaka and Qui-Gon both stared.

“There are only twelve of us,” Panaka said. “We have no army.”

“Obi-Wan and I can only protect you,” Qui-Gon pointed out. “We can’t fight a war for you.”

Sabé-as-queen glanced to Padmé, who slid her gaze to the side. No, she did not want Panaka or the Jedi Master aware of what she was planning, just yet, to make sure Palpatine couldn’t learn of it before it was too late. Between her increased midichlorian count and what she’d changed already, reducing opportunities for risk couldn’t hurt.

“We are aware,” Sabé-as-queen said. “Thank you.”

* * *

Padmé interrupted Pilot Ric Olié’s tutelage of Anakin in the cockpit to quietly give Ric instructions for where they would land once they reached Naboo. She barely remembered to consult with Jar Jar first.

Palpatine had puppeted the Clone Wars into almost being a Human vs. Other delineation. Uncle Ono had briefly left the Republic because Rodia was left to starve when in need. If Gunray hadn’t been so eager to capture and kill her, Uncle Ono never would’ve realized what he’d joined until it was too late to back out.

Of course, thanks to the Delegation of the Two Thousand Senators, the Republic-turned-Empire had probably gotten him killed, too.

Curse the Trade Federation. She _couldn’t_ bring up her evidence and get Nute Gunray imprisoned for good—he and his obsession with killing her had affected too many things.

Hmm. If she picked the right details, she could prove the Trade Federation’s involvement while leaving Gunray room to deny personal responsibility.

But _why_ did Palpatine target non-Humans so aggressively? Was he truly that prejudiced?

The Naboo people _did_ have a long history of bias against the indigenous Gungans, even when it was covert rather than explicit. Palpatine was far older than she was, so he’d lived with it longer. She’d died before the reparations were set upon the worlds that lost the war, but the supermajority in the Senate surely would’ve penalized the non-Human worlds harsher than the Human-majority ones.

She rubbed her temples and put that on the list of things to seek to sabotage. Countering anti-Human sentiments would be difficult—but then, so would outmaneuvering Palpatine’s anti-Jedi propaganda…

“Are you all right?” Anakin asked, cutting into her thoughts and reminding her she’d been in the throne room with Sabé, on this approach Before, but she’d already taken care of all that.

“Fine, thank you.”

Uneasiness blossomed in his aura, and he glanced behind her. “Okay.”

“My lady,” Obi-Wan said politely, from the entrance. “I believe we’re about to exit hyperspace.”

“That’s right,” Ric said. “You have an excellent sense of timing, Master Jedi. Captain Panaka.”

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan seemed to exchange a glance with Anakin, for the boy scrambled out of the way, making room for both Obi-Wan and Panaka to draw closer.

Captain Panaka outright scowled at her, probably for standing up here where she wouldn’t be able to strap down. Obi-Wan’s glance probably noted the expression, and Anakin frowned in confusion.

They exited hyperspace with the smoothness to be expected from good tech and a skilled pilot.

“The blockade’s gone.” Panaka sounded surprised.

“The war’s over.” Obi-Wan kept his voice an idle comment even while he explained the tactics behind the action to the captain of her security. “There’s no need for it.”

Ric checked his instruments. “I have one battleship on my scope.”

“A droid control ship,” Obi-Wan said, not bothering to look at the scans and demonstrating the good understanding of military strategy that he had even now.

He’d already spent the year on Mandalore with Satine. Of course he had a good handle on such tactics.

Panaka felt on edge, as if he thought the Jedi Padawan was trying to make him look incompetent. “They’ve probably spotted us.”

Obi-Wan didn’t react, though Padmé knew he was aware of the implicit desire to one-up him. He didn’t acknowledge Panaka’s comment, but he did agree: “We haven’t much time.”

* * *

The queen’s plan—or, at least, the secrecy in it—had Padmé’s fingerprints all over it. No one else knew what was going on, and it wasn’t as if Qui-Gon could press the queen or her favorite handmaiden for answers.

The bumbling Gungan who’d attached himself to Qui-Gon was nowhere to be found, either, which did not bode well.

“Jar Jar is on his way to the Gungan city, Master,” Obi-Wan said.

He startled, for he’d not paid attention to his apprentice’s approach, and gave the young man a sharp look. “What?”

“The Gungan city Otoh Gunga is in this lake,” he said. “The queen sent Jar Jar to make contact.”

“She told you this?” The Queen of Naboo wouldn’t be the first person to flirt with his too-handsome-for-his-own-good Padawan, but this favortism was abrupt and inappropriate. He should have been the one informed, not his apprentice.

Besides, wasn’t the queen _fourteen_?

Obi-Wan glanced over whatever Qui-Gon had been looking at, but there was nothing to see. “Jar Jar did, before he left. Apparently the queen wishes to make an alliance with the Gungans.”

“An alliance?” Qui-Gon said. “Do they have some kind of army?”

“I don’t know, but if they do… That bongo was quality engineering, and that city we visited wasn’t primitive.”

Perhaps, but the Gungans hadn’t cared about the Naboo when they’d sought to warn of invasion. Why would they care now? “The Gungans will not easily be swayed, and we cannot use our power to help her.”

And Force Suggestion was the only way they’d made it to Amidala as quickly as they had.

Speaking of Amidala, did she know just how elaborate her handmaiden’s visions were? If Padmé had seen the invasion and let it happen…what did that say about her loyalties?

And if Padmé _was_ the queen…that was all the worse.

He sensed Obi-Wan consider a line of conversation and set it aside. “I’m…grateful you think me ready to face the Trials, Master.”

Qui-Gon considered his apprentice, but the man gave no hint of what he’d decided not to say.

“You have been a good apprentice,” he admitted, for Obi-Wan deserved that, “and you’re a much wiser man than I am.” Or, at least, was better at choosing his battles.

* * *

Qui-Gon wrapped up his odd praise with “I foresee you will become a great Jedi Knight.”

Obi-Wan nearly flinched. Qui-Gon’s trust of precognition was very much dependent on the vision’s source and content, and he’d been dismissive of Obi-Wan’s from the start. One of the justifications he’d given for that was that Qui-Gon himself didn’t really _have_ precognition. His ‘foresight’ was nothing more than belief or thought (or flattery), wrapped in a term that suggested there had been a vision, that his words were necessarily true.

He also hadn’t spoken so kindly to Obi-Wan in years.

Why the change now? Padmé’s scold of him on the landing platform hadn’t changed anything—Qui-Gon was still upset with her for that—so there had to be a reason for the words.

Maybe he was just wanting to make sure that Obi-Wan was still his ally? That would fit the situation, whether he wanted Obi-Wan’s assistance in the battle to come or in helping Anakin end up his apprentice.

Regardless his Master’s motives, the words _were_ kind. Obi-Wan smiled and accepted those words for what they were. “Thank you, Master.”

* * *

Uneasiness had filled the waiting group Before, even when everyone had known ‘the queen’ wanted to talk to the Gungans. Now that she’d made arrangements so quietly that only Sabé knew what she was up to, that worsened.

The resultant uncertainty made clear which of her people felt entitled to answers (Qui-Gon, Panaka, one pilot that she was pretty sure was going to end up dead in the Battle of Theed), and who would prefer answers but accepted her right to refuse them (everyone else).

Padme didn’t remember Anakin studying a data reader, Before, but she’d been worried sick about her people and her plan, and she hadn’t really been paying attention.

Jar Jar returned alone, as she’d expected, and the Jedi and Panaka drew closer as he came over to her and Sabé-as-queen.

“Dere’s-a nobody dere,” Jar Jar said. “Some kinda fight, mesa dinks.”

“Do you think they have been taken to the camps?” Obi-Wan asked, overtly directing the question to Qui-Gon and giving his Master an opening to assuage his still-stinging pride.

“More likely, they were wiped out,” Panaka answered, obviously intending it as an announcement that yes, he understood battle strategy…and missing the kindness behind Obi-Wan’s suggestion.

“Mesa no tink so,” Jar Jar replied immediately, so she didn’t have much reason or opportunity to call Panaka out on the cruelty and bigotry inherent in his words, which spoke so casually of potential genocide…to someone who would’ve been one of the few survivors.

“Do you know where they are, Jar Jar?” Qui-Gon asked, and she wasn’t imagining the tolerance in his voice.

Jar Jar answered, “When in trouble, Gungans go to sacred place. Mesa show you. C’mon, mesa show you!”

* * *

They walked together until Captain Roos Tarpals and his men found them, and the conflicting emotions that flared in both Tarpals and Jar Jar admitted the close friendship between them.

Well, that explained why they worked so hard to save each other in the Battle of Great Grass Plains. _Would_ work so hard—that hadn’t happened yet.

Captain Tarpals stayed on his kaddu as he led them deeper into the swamp, the air getting thicker and wetter and hotter. The remains of statues became visible under the vines, and the path they trod was more secure than it looked, so it was in regular use.

When the time came to introduce them to Boss Nass, he focused on the item that could keep the leader’s attention off the exile who had returned _again_. “Your Honor, Queen Amidala of the Naboo.”

Jar Jar, though, stayed in front of the rest of them. Padmé suspected that was intentional, so any punishment that fell on him could be separate from the rest of the group.

“Uh, heyo Daddy Big Boss Nass, Your Honor.”

And that was a lot more polite and respectful than the Gungan tended to be, so he was really trying to soften the male to her request.

“Jar Jar Binks,” Boss Nass said, his voice heavy with displeasure, but he accepted the opening. “Who’s-a uss-en uthers?”

Sabé took that opening to start the speech she’d been coached in. “I am Queen Amidala of the Naboo. I come before you in peace.”

“Ah, Naboo biggen. Yousa bringen the machaneeks. Yousa all bombad.”

Sabé could only go with the speech she’d been authorized to make, even if she was noticing that it wasn’t fitting the situation. “We have searched you out, because we wish to form an alliance—“

“Your Honor,” Padmé interrupted, as she stepped forward and past her handmaiden.

“Who’s-a dis?” Boss Nass sounded annoyed, but potentially intrigued.

“ _I_ am Queen Amidala,” she said, and she had his attention, even as others in her party were startled. She indicated Sabé. “This is my decoy, my protection, my loyal bodyguard. I am sorry for my deception, but it was necessary to protect myself.”

She gave the rest of her speech and dropped to her knees to beg. Her people behind her gasped, but this— _this_ was what had caused the alliance between their peoples, and she would do far more than kneel in mud to protect Naboo.

And it worked, same as it had Before.

* * *

Anakin watched for Qui-Gon to step away and watch someone else before he approached Obi-Wan with the data reader.

“You finished that one already?” the Padawan asked.

“Yes, sir.” There wasn’t really anything else to do, and the summary of various Force abilities and what they _felt_ like had even been interesting, though Anakin hadn’t always been able to understand what it meant.

Obi-Wan glanced towards Qui-Gon and crouched beside Anakin, and took the data reader. “Hmm. Let’s give you something a little different, this time. Something you’ll enjoy.”

The blond handmaiden was nearby.

Obi-Wan called to her, “I’m looking for something for Anakin to read. Do you have any suggestions?”

The handmaiden cast a quick glance around, but Anakin _felt_ her check for others’ presences.

“You’re Force-sensitive, too!” he blurted.

“Of course I am,” Obi-Wan answered. “All Jedi are.”

“But that…” He looked from the calm Padawan to the relieved handmaiden.

And Qui-Gon was returning.

“But that’s not that I mean,” Anakin said. “You’re Force-sensitive, too, so you should be able to do the same things I can.”

“Different people have different gifts,” Obi-Wan said. “I cannot pilot like you do.”

“Huh.”

They both only glanced at the handmaiden.

“Of course you can’t pilot like Anakin,” Qui-Gon said, dropping his hands on his shoulders. “The boy has a gift.”

Obi-Wan’s aura stayed placid. Even the handmaiden’s only rippled.

And yet somehow, Anakin knew they _both_ had caught the blatant flattery and presumption that Anakin would accept Qui-Gon to be his Master.

They’d noticed, so why were they acting as if they hadn’t?

Anakin chewed his lip and decided he could ask later, when Qui-Gon wasn’t in position to repeat how he’d treated Obi-Wan and Padmé on the landing platform. “Thank you, sir.”

* * *

Padmé sensed Panaka returning before Anakin came running towards the group of them who were planning the assault.

“They’re here!” called the boy who would someday be her husband.

 _Shiraya, give me strength._ “What is the situation?” she asked of Panaka, as he approached.

He gave the report—everyone in camps, he’d brought as many leaders as he could, the Trade Federation army was larger and stronger than they’d expected…

 _What world was Palpatine planning on taking after this one, if his plan succeeded here?_ She’d have to try to look into that.

“Your Highness, this is a battle I do not think we can win.”

Did Panaka truly think she planned so simplistically, or was he just unable to see multi-tiered plans? How had she survived her terms a queen with him as her chief of security?

And why hadn’t she noticed that weakness in him, Before?

“The battle is a diversion,” she said baldly, and she finally went public with the entire plan to the leaders involved in putting it into action.

Qui-Gon still felt a bit sharp, unhappy and wanting to think her a fool. Obi-Wan felt intrigued by her plotting, probably noticing the handful of redundancies she’d managed to work in despite the limited resources.

“What do you think, Master Jedi?” she asked, opening the floor for their contribution.

“The viceroy will be well guarded,” Qui-Gon pointed out—an obvious detail, but one that he might reasonably fear a planet of pacifists might have overlooked.

“The difficulty’s getting into the throne room,” her captain said matter-of-factly. “Once we're inside, we shouldn’t have a problem.”

Panaka sounded far more comfortable at taking critique from the Jedi Master than he was from taking information from the Jedi Padawan, even though Obi-Wan was far closer in age to him than he was to Padmé, herself.

Padmé did some quick math and blinked at the reminder that she’d been born eleven years after Obi-Wan. He had never acted as if he found her young, not even when she made decisions that he’d thought foolish.

_And now thanks to whatever my grandmother did to resurrect me, I am mentally…eight years older than he is?_

She looked at Anakin, applied that math to her relationship with her future husband, and promptly decided that she’d never think on that, again.

Qui-Gon addressed Boss Nass. “There is a possibility that with this diversion, many Gungans will be killed.”

Padmé reminded herself that war was still unusual in the galaxy—the Jedi Master had good reason to make sure that had occured to the Gungan.

“We-sa ready to do our-sen part.”

She spoke up, added the part of the plan that would protect the Gungans: going after the droid control ship.

“A well-conceived plan,” Qui-Gon said, though that was more of a polite, diplomatic lie than the truth. “However, there’s great risk. The weapons on your fighters may not penetrate the shields.”

A risk that applied to every single battle ever, so she wasn’t quite sure why he’d brought that up, Before. Had she somehow irritated him then, too?

“And there’s an even bigger danger,” Obi-Wan added. “If the viceroy escapes, Your Highness, he will return with another droid army.”

She’d been a bit annoyed by his statement, Before, but now that she had more experience with the galaxy and how people thought of war and tactics in general, she was grateful to Obi-Wan for being willing to risk Qui-Gon’s ire, to make sure she hadn’t overlooked the obvious.

“That is why we must not fail to get to the viceroy,” she said, letting the others hear that it was why she was going after the viceroy _herself_. “Everything depends on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my writing and want to find my original work, you can find free stuff on Wattpad or support me on Patreon, both @carradee.
> 
> Hope you're doing well!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> updated 1/18/17, to fix typo and unclear stuff (nausea and vertigo ≠ great for writing, so sorry to folks looking for a new chapter)

 

Obi-Wan arose before dawn, unsettled by the incoherent whispers of his own precognition that had plagued him all night. His dreams had faded from memory as fast as he had them.

Danger was present on the planet—he could remember and sense that much, though he had no idea from whom or for whom or in what form.

He didn’t want his foreboding to bother any of the others trying to rest on the overcrowded ship, though, so he stepped off onto the earth, thinking he’d jump up on one of the standing stones that ran near the edge of the swamp and the plains. That would be a nice place from which to watch the sun rise.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only person who’d possessed that idea. The blonde among the handmaidens, Eirtaé, studied the sky between glances at her data reader and notes made on flimsi.

Obi-Wan double-checked that Qui-Gon was still occupied (sleeping), then quietly approached the pillar that the young woman sat on. He didn’t see any climbing gear or ropes, so she’d probably climbed it freestyle, like the Gungans did.

She didn’t acknowledge Obi-Wan with action or word, but he _felt_ her recognize and accept his presence, with a casualness that he usually only sensed from fellow Jedi. She’d displayed some Force sensitivity the previous day, too; even Anakin had noticed.

He considered the situation and what Padmé—Queen Amidala—had illustrated about the Naboo, and he Force-jumped up.

Eirtaé had already shifted position to give him room to sit cross-legged and meditate.

He accepted the invitation and sent his thanks via the Force.

Her smile was sincere but wistful, and she focused on the sky. “I figured out how to do that from your own use of it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Obi-Wan answered automatically, even while he marvelled at how this young woman a decade his junior had picked up the skill so quickly. He would have to be careful what he did, around Force-sensitive Naboo.

That impression was solidified when Eirtaé casually asked, “You get snippets from her dreams, too?”

* * *

Uneasiness tangled Anakin’s stomach into knots, waking him while others around him were still asleep. He checked the ship clock, but that didn’t mean anything to him. He wasn’t sure how to set it to Tatooine time—or how to switch it back even if he did figure that out.

He thought to look at the sky outside instead, and he stepped off the ship to find the dawn adding shades of color he’d never seen to the already-amazing greens of the plains and wet brown of the swamp.

He spotted Obi-Wan and the blond handmaiden atop the boulder that had been used by a Gungan scout to watch for Panaka’s return, the day before, and he headed that way. The rising sun and nature around him kept drawing his eye, though, and he tripped and fell flat on his face.

“Anakin!” The Jedi Padawan hopped off the rock, the Force embracing him in a graceful landing, and the handmaiden scrambled down, too. “Are you all right?”

Anakin blinked a bit, startled by their reaction. “It’s just a little scrape. I’m okay. It’s just so beautiful.”

“The grass?” the handmaiden asked, sounding confused.

Obi-Wan gave her a sharp glance.

She answered with a helpless shrug.

Anakin felt something—no, some _one_ —get gently pried off his… mind? Was that what it was? The handmaiden blushed.

“Are all the Naboo Force-sensitive?” he blurted.

“It’s mainly the noble houses, I think,” she answered. “But I don’t know.”

“Telepathy can be a slippery slope,” Obi-Wan commented.

“No argument there,” she answered. “Oh, you mean that’s what I did? Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Anakin said. “I did the same thing to Master, um, Depa yesterday.”

“Did you?” The Jedi Padawan glanced between the two of them, frowning. “Huh.”

Silence fell, and the three of them watched the dawn.

Anakin wasn’t sure how long they stood there.

“You don’t have to come with us,” Obi-Wan said quietly, looking towards the city they would be infiltrating that day. “I’m sure the Gungans would let you stay safe with them.”

He peered up at Obi-Wan, but the Padawan did seem to be giving Anakin the choice. Qui-Gon hadn’t even asked. “If Padmé’s plan doesn’t work, the bad guys will be coming after the Gungans, too. I’ll be safer with you and Qui-Gon.”

The handmaiden’s disapproval was heavy in the air.

“He has a point, Eirtaé.”

“It isn’t any more dangerous than racing pods.” Which hadn’t even been the most dangerous part of his life as a slave. At least a podrace was something that happened fast, rather than ticking by…

“You podrace?” asked the handmaiden, Eirtaé. She sounded startled.

“That’s how we got the hyperdrive.”

“Qui-Gon let him podrace?” Eirtaé was staring in horror at _Obi-Wan_. “Do I want to know how he treated _you_ when you were our age?”

Obi-Wan flinched.

* * *

The sky was bright and clear, the day that her planet would be freed and that Qui-Gon would die.

Padmé stared up at it, knowing all too soon the day would be marred by the sound of blasterfire and the air by the scent of smoke.

But the battle would be short, and it would precede nearly a decade of something akin to peace before it erupted into the war. She had time.

Had she ever known where Kamino was? She couldn’t remember. There had been something odd about the records of it, though, and she was probably going to have to send someone to Coruscant to check with…Dex, wasn’t it? Assuming Dex was even around yet. She might need to look to other sources of information.

No matter. She’d cross that bridge once she had this battle behind her.

* * *

The dim, dank tunnel that was the closest Qui-Gon had seen to a dirty or poor district on Naboo. He wondered what the planet did with its poor, its homeless, and its criminals.

The young Force-sensitive Queen of Naboo didn’t give a second thought to bringing a young boy into battle—but he supposed that was to be expected, of a culture that intentionally elected a _fourteen-year-old_ as their leader. Even the Gungans didn’t seem to mind the child queen, Boss Nass’s approval being all they cared about.

Then again, the fourteen-year-old girl also wasn’t the one leading the Gungan army into battle. He’d glimpsed some of it, during preparations, and he was impressed at the amphibians’ ability to build it under the noses of the Naboo.

He also found it odd that a planet so focused on peace would be so accepting of combat and war.

“Discussion only works to resolve situations when both parties are willing to negotiate,” the blond handmaiden said, startling him. He hadn’t realized she was following him so closely. “Sometimes, fighting is the _only_ option.”

“Was my line of thought that obvious?” he asked, bemused and wondering if he needed a midichlorian count on _all_ the Naboo he was working with.

On second thought, midichlorian tests on all the handmaidens actually seemed like a good idea, if he survived this battle.

The handmaiden gave a slight shrug, her sharp gaze catching the movements around them as they progressed through the tunnels.

“What about me?” Anakin asked.

Qui-Gon hadn’t even seen him, behind the handmaiden.

“Just stick close to me,” he answered. “Do as I say, and I’ll keep you safe.”

* * *

_‘Do as I say, and I’ll keep you safe’?_

Eirtaé considered telling the Jedi Master just what she thought of that prerequisite to protecting Anakin, but the flashes of dream she’d picked up from Her Highness the night before warned her to hold her tongue. Master Jinn was upset enough, they didn’t have time to work through his assumptions and hurt pride, and he was quite possibly— _probably?_ —about to die.

They reached the tunnel branch where red group and blue group were to split up. She checked for Padawan Kenobi, ready to fetch him from behind Rabé’s group, but he came forward on his own.

 _Much_ better attention to detail than his Master.

She intentionally misstepped, twisting her weak ankle slightly. The Jedi Master paused, but she waved him on.

“I’ll be fine in a minute,” she told the Jedi as she clung to Anakin’s shoulder for support. “Stay with the queen.”

As she’d expected, Master Jinn scowled but did so, while Padawan Kenobi lingered back with her.

She kept her smile wide, making sure the pitch of her voice was friendly. Eirtaé didn’t follow her father’s lead in much, but plausible deniability was always a good idea. Even her parents’ good friend Senator Palpatine agreed on that one. “Master Jinn told Anakin to do as he says and stay near him, in order to be kept safe.”

The way she said it was a perfectly amiable attempt at chitchat. From Kenobi’s sharp glance at her, though, the Padawan caught her intent of censure—and, frankly, tattling.

Padawan Kenobi also sighed, reinforcing Eirtaé’s private decision to open a legal investigation into Master Jinn’s treatment of his Padawan, as soon as they had opportunity. Kenobi would be embarrassed and perhaps never forgive her, but at least she could try to ensure that Jinn never got to mistreat another Padawan.

Or maybe the man would die today and spare them all the headache.

“When we get inside,” Padawan Kenobi said to Anakin, “please try to find a place to hide.”

“But I wanna help.”

“I know you do,” the Padawan said, “but it’s too dangerous. There is going to be a lot of blasterfire going around, and you aren’t trained for that yet.”

Yet? She _liked_ Padawan Kenobi.

He glanced at her and paused, discomfort flaring.

Her face went hot. “I’m sorry. I–I didn’t mean that how it probably felt. I know I’m not Coruscant legal— Oh, _ancestors_. That’s not helping, is it?”

“Not really, no.” Kenobi was both amused and still uncomfortable and doubtlessly calculating how to avoid too much more exposure to her, to avoid inflaming her presumed crush.

She didn’t blame him. Her family didn’t believe her, either.

Still, she had to show him the courtesy of trying to explain: “I just felt that you would be a good match for _someone_. I don’t know who, and I certainly don’t mean me. I just like you as a person.”

His expression cleared, and his aura lightened. “Oh, you mean a squish.”

A what?

“Non-romantic, non-sexual interest in and desire for a person’s company.”

She blinked. There was a _name_ for that?

“My friend Luminara is the same, although she’s learned to recognize non-platonic feelings in others, since it’s pertinent to her work as a consular. But it’s actually really funny, because if you make a double entendre just right, she’ll miss it until Bant smacks you, and then Luminara has to pause and think it through to realize what you said. Well, unless you’re Quinlan, because…”

Padawan Kenobi seemed to remember where he was, and his own face gained a pink tint. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to being around active Force-sensitives who aren’t Jedi. I…suppose the Naboo culture doesn’t have much comprehension of non-sexual relationships?”

Anakin looked as confused as Eirtaé felt.

“It…might be more my family than Naboo as a whole,” she prevaricated. “My father’s sort of a traditionalist.”

That was what he called himself, anyway. It was his excuse for why he’d been so furious that she’d lost the election—and why he hadn’t sabotaged her opportunity to be an honorary handmaiden after she lost. He’d outright salivated over how being the etiquette advisor put her in a perfect position to sabotage Amidala’s public image and supplant it with her own.

Eirtaé shuddered.

“Jedi don’t really know much about relationships, either,” Padawan Kenobi said, “but…Mandalorans do. I recently spent a year there.”

She gave him a sharp glance, startled. Didn’t Mandalorans hate Jedi?

If he noticed her confusion, he ignored it. “Go back to Qui-Gon, please,” he told Anakin. “Stay near him until you have a chance to hide.”

“To make sure he doesn’t get mad at me, too,” the boy said.

Eirtaé cringed.

Padawan Kenobi, though, didn’t so much as flinch, so maybe Master Jinn really was unwitting and could be reasoned with, if approached properly. That indicated some problematic things about about whoever _his_ master had been, if not the Jedi Order in general, because someone who cared about others only mistreated them that way if they’d been taught the behaviors as normal or considerate.

At least Padawan Kenobi’s absentminded chatter about his friends indicated _he_ had some understanding of healthy relationships.

“I’ll help Eirtaé catch back up,” he said.

Anakin looked between them, the maturity in his expression making Eirtaé wonder where Master Jinn had found the boy. He was reminding her more of the refugees she’d seen in holos, and less of Yané’s brothers.

He heeded Padawan Kenobi, the Jedi helped her make sure her ankle had recovered enough to support her, and they caught up just as the group reached the exit into the city.

* * *

Courtesy of the Gungans drawing so many of the troops out of the city, they reached the plaza by the main hangar as easily as they had Before. Padmé glanced over the lot of them, double-checked that folks were as ready as their auras could be…

Then she signaled Panaka across the plaza, and the battle began.

As she’d expected, Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn focused more on protecting Anakin than he did her. Oh, he stopped the bolts that could have killed her, but the ones that had potential to _maybe_ just graze her? Those, he didn’t bother stopping—but then, he _probably_ knew that she was Force-sensitive enough to dodge those. He was also keeping his focus on protecting Anakin and Eirtaé (the two of their group with the least combat training), so Padmé wasn’t complaining.

She was a bit concerned that his annoyance increased every time Obi-Wan blocked something he’d failed to catch, as if the thought his apprentice was calling him incompetent. If Qui-Gon got angry enough, he might just—

Padmé threw herself to the ground before the blaster bolt could take her head off and rolled back to her feet. (Okay, _maybe_ that shot would’ve just gone past her ear, as it had Before, but she didn’t dare assume. Qui-Gon had been Dooku’s apprentice. She probably should’ve remembered that before she insulted his pride. He probably hadn’t ever unlearned whatever bad habits he’d picked up from Dooku.)

Obi-Wan protested by adjusting his position to guard her by himself. The acrobatics differed from how she remembered him fighting, in the war, but maybe whatever style he used now was why Qui-Gon had died.

They entered the hangar, shooting as they advanced. The pilot who’d felt entitled to answers about her plans ran too soon and died halfway to his ship. Padmé didn’t let herself sigh.

“Anakin, stay close to me!” the Jedi Master snapped, which differed from Before, when he’d told Anakin to take cover. Maybe because he was devoting himself to protecting both blonds rather than her?

Padmé called “Pilots, get to your ships!” to the ones waiting for her order. None of _them_ died.

Artoo-Detoo got plucked up by the ship of the dead pilot, and the astromech whistled. Anakin glanced up as if he understood, and he looked back between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan.

What was he doing?

* * *

Anakin considered the Naboo starfighter that Artoo seemed to want him to join.

Qui-Gon wanted him to stay nearby.

Obi-Wan wanted him to hide when he could.

Obi-Wan had also said the problem was that Anakin wasn’t trained for this kind of thing _yet_.

He didn’t know how to fight, but he _did_ know how to pilot. The cockpit would let him hide, and he’d be in position to run if he needed to escape.

“Master! I’m going to join Artoo!” he called, and he ran over.

“Anakin—“ Qui-Gon protested, but he was already to the ship.

He felt Eirtaé check his position and take down a droid before it could shoot towards him.

“Thanks!” he said as he scrambled into the cockpit.

Her ‘your welcome’ came through the Force, and it reassured Anakin that, no matter what the Jedi Council decided about his training, at least he’d be welcomed _somewhere_.

* * *

Anakin had run off into the fighter, and Qui-Gon crushed his irritation before it made him do something foolish, like ‘accidentally’ redirect a blaster bolt into the queen. That boy was far more valuable than a too-young, too-arrogant queen of a small planet so insignificant that the most people had to say about it was that it was pretty.

Okay, so insofar as politics were concerned, Naboo had good relations with the Inner Core and was known for the disproportionate amount of aid it tended to provide places in need. But it was still just one small world in the Chommell sector of the Mid Rim. The blockade had gone on for months without anyone doing more than wagging their tongues.

Force, it had been months before Finis Valorum had even called in the Jedi to negotiate.

And she dared endanger the Chosen One of the Force?

Qui-Gon wished he’d been more leery of her from the start. Between her visions and what she’d obviously allowed to happen…

She was working with the Sith. That was the only answer that made sense.

* * *

“Thank you, Eirtaé,” Obi-Wan said aloud as she shot the last droid in the hangar before he could deflect anything into it. “You’re an excellent shot.”

Confusion flickered in the queen beside him. “She really isn’t. She’s my public relations specialist.”

“Well, you’re an incredible one,” he answered, unsurprised she would find her handmaiden’s aim mediocre in comparison. “I’ve met Mandalorans who don’t shoot as well as you do.”

Qui-Gon scowled at him as he approached. “That’s enough flirting. We have work to do.”

Eirtaé’s expression went bland, making him hope that her position as handmaiden gave her the means to get away from whoever had caused her to be so used to such unwarranted accusations.

Queen Amidala, who he still felt like calling Padmé, scowled and glared, again, just as she had before she’d lambasted Qui-Gon on the landing platform.

Obi-Wan sighed. He lightly touched the back of her hand, to draw her attention, and shook his head. _Not an appropriate time for that, Your Highness._

She stared and blinked a few times, nonplussed, then looked towards the blast doors ahead that made Obi-Wan cold to look at. Amidala’s first step towards them was hesitant, even tentative, and he feared to ask what she’d seen.

“Hey, where are you going?” Anakin called.

“Stay there!” Qui-Gon snapped—with a scowl at Obi-Wan, so he’d guessed who had given Anakin the conflicting instructions. “Stay in that cockpit!”

Obi-Wan was not looking forward to the argument that would result later.

Amidala’s eyes were wide as she glanced among the three of them.

Then the blast doors started opening, and a dark-robed figure Obi-Wan had _really_ hoped wouldn’t show happened to be standing there, waiting for them.

Amidala looked the male straight in the eye. Some conflict warred within her.

What had Qui-Gon said in the Council chamber? ‘ _Padmé Naberrie is the handmaiden I told you of earlier, the one who has seen visions of being murdered by a Sith.’_

“Is this the one who killed you?” he asked, softly.

She trembled, ever so slightly.

She shook her head, ever so slightly.

Then she drew herself up, lifted her chin, and spoke with a voice full of command. “We’ll take the long way.”

She turned, leading her people away and leaving the Jedi to face the Sith…then paused. She closed her eyes for a long second, then looked at Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan both.

“Don’t let him separate the two of you,” she said.

And then the Sith moved in, and droidekas came around to attack her, and the opportunity to inquire for further detail was lost.

* * *

There had already been changes Padmé didn’t know about—the different relationship among Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, and Anakin made that clear, even as Anakin again activated the Naboo fighter to blast away the droidekas attacking her.

Maybe those differences were why she warned the Jedi, or maybe it was just because she didn’t want to end up like Palpatine, who sacrificed everything on the altar of expedience, in his pursuit of power. What she sought wasn’t quite the same, but it was close enough that she recognized danger in what she could become.

But with how she’d waited until the last minute, and how she’d brought it up in such a way that encouraged Qui-Gon to dismiss it, and how she felt _relief_ that the Jedi Master’s aura made clear that he was going to ignore her words…

Had some part of her done that _on purpose_?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories ran before Padmé’s eyes, blending into reality in a way that was disconcerting. The sights mostly matched, although the attacking droids weren’t falling in quite the same patterns that they had, Before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. This chapter's partially unbeta'd and will get edited once my beta gets a chance to look at it, but pretty much I finished right when she got busy, and Tuesday is about over for me, so…here y'all go. :)
> 
> Hope you're all doing well!
> 
> This book will have at least one more chapter. After this book is done, there will be a break as I start figuring out the structure for what'll be filling the time period between Episodes I & II. Also might have some shorter side stories, showing others' perspectives. (Like, oh, what Mace has done differently, this time—though some of that will probably show in the next chapter.)

Anakin was glad he’d figured out how to use the guns, to get those rolling droids away from Padmé and Eirtaé, but he wasn’t so happy that the ship had an autopilot that was carrying him towards the other fighters, right into the thick of battle.

He knew how to fly in dangerous landscapes. As his struggle to even find the guns proved, he did not know how to fly in battle, if only because he didn’t know all the controls.

_At least I have Artoo with me._

He’d heard that the little astromech had used a shortcut to save everyone on their way off Naboo, and Artoo had been a lot of help with his podracer.

If he had to be flying a fighter in the thick of battle, Artoo was the best assistant that he could have with him.

“Hey, can you turn off this autopilot? It’s gonna get us _both_ killed.”

The astromech beeped that he’d figure it out, and he fortunately got it just in time for Anakin to dodge some weapons fire coming at him.

They both let out sounds of relief.

* * *

Memories ran before Padmé’s eyes, blending into reality in a way that was disconcerting. The sights _mostly_ matched, although the attacking droids weren’t falling in quite the same patterns that they had, Before.

Had the Jedi changed something? Had her own dreams changed how her protectors positioned themselves? She wasn’t tracking which part of her vision was Now and which was Then.

Fortunately, the Force was firmly anchored in the present, so she focused on just doing as it prodded her, and that worked fine.

* * *

Eirtaé wasn’t sure when she realized Anakin wasn’t on the surface of Naboo anymore. She grabbed a moment to cast the queen a quick but searching glance, but Her Highness seemed unaware, even though she had more practice with the Force and knew the boy better.

That was…odd.

The confusion was something to mull on later. Padawan Kenobi was going to survive, if she’d understood the dream snippets properly, so she could discuss the issue with him.

For now, she had to protect her queen. That meant she, in good conscience, had to avoid increasing the risk of Her Highness discovering Anakin’s current location.

Eirtaé sighed and pulled her aura away from the queen’s. Both her reflexes and her shooting skills worsened, but there was no help for it.

* * *

Flying in combat wasn’t the same as racing pods, but there were enough similarities that Anakin didn’t feel _completely_ out of his depth.

The Naboo fighter wasn’t a podracer, though, and he had a few near-mishaps while he fought to figure out the handling differences. He was pretty sure that Artoo was doing some as-they-flew adjustments and redirects to account for the differences between how the ship was designed and what Anakin was used to.

Turning and spinning sure felt different—not that he’d ever been able to spin completely in a pod, but canyon walls could be used similarly.

 _Good thing he helped with my pod._ Anakin hadn’t even gotten a good look at all the tweaks Artoo had made, before Qui-Gon sold the podracer, but seeing how he built things and how he flew in the podrace was probably helping the astromech now.

Anakin could feel the other pilots’ positions in the Force, and that meant he could tell when it went dark, too. He swallowed hard, and his hands moved on their own to fire at one attacking droid before one pilot went down.

 _“Thanks!”_ came over the comm.

He considered asking Artoo to answer for him, but that would probably be as distracting for everyone as hearing a kid on the other end. Assuming he could even get the communications unit to work. Combat was hard enough to learn fast enough to keep alive, without breaking his concentration to try to figure out the comm system, too.

 _“Their shields are too strong!”_ another pilot said. _“We’ll never get through!”_

 _< <Maybe we should go back?>>_ Artoo asked, via the communication screen.

“Go back?”

More of the little droids tried to blast Artoo and him to oblivion, and another pilot’s life vanished from the Force. Anakin shuddered.

Obi-Wan’s friend had been a Padawan at Anakin’s age, experienced enough that he’d gone on missions and found the kid who would end up his apprentice.

Anakin was going to be a Jedi, and Jedi helped people. “No, the pilots need help. How can we do that? Do you see anything we can do?”

Artoo’s long whistle wasn’t translated by the communicator, but Anakin had a distinct sense of exasperation.

* * *

The fight was taking too long, so they went out the window and up the wall, and _that_ fight (and capture) ended up matching Padmé’s memories.

She blinked in confusion, but she told everyone to give up their weapons, that the Trade Federation won this round.

Thank the Force she’d had the foresight to put redundancies in her plan even Before. Her knowledge of the wars of on her planet helped her better appreciate the Great Time of Peace. (Also turned out useful in the years to come, since she kept ending up in situations that, in hindsight, were probably Palpatine trying to get her killed.)

As the droids escorted them to the viceroy, she wondered where she’d gotten the idea to study that time period in so much more depth than most Naboo. She couldn’t remember.

* * *

The shot that clipped the ship came out of nowhere, without so much as a warning in the Force.

“We’re hit, Artoo!” he yelled in surprise, realizing that it was a stupid thing to say even as the words left his mouth. They both scrabbled to try to regain control, but the spin sent them where it would, and the ship slid to a stop.

“Everything’s overheated.” Anakin spared a moment’s thankfulness that they hadn’t landed upside-down in the—

 _Wait_ , he belatedly remembered. _We were flying in space over Naboo, not in a podrace on Tatooine._

He carefully pushed himself up, to peek out of the cockpit, and saw way too many the droids surrounding them.

Well, that answered where they were. The shot must’ve sent them right into the hanger bay of the droid control ship that all the Naboo pilots were trying to destroy.

Anakin ducked and flicked the power switch again. “Uh, Artoo, how long does a reset take?”

He knew enough binary to understand the astromech’s mournful _< <I don’t know>>_

The enemy droids were cautiously approaching the fighter, weapons raised.

“ _E chu ta_ ,” he cursed quietly. Mom would’ve been disappointed to hear him say it, but if someone as powerful and cultured as Padmé—a _queen_ —could say that in front of the _Jedi Council_ , he didn’t see the problem with using it in the current situation.

Power was still down. He needed that either for to reset, or for another idea to come to him.

Anakin considered the situation, at all the droids outside that would gladly kill him, inside this ship that could be destroyed at any time. “Let’s focus on this reset, Artoo.”

The astromech let out a quiet beep of acceptance.

* * *

Obi-Wan had experience with a variety of weapons, but he was best with—and most comfortable with—the lightsaber of a Jedi. He’d used it in defense and offense, against blasterfire and blockades and more. He’d even fought in saber-to-saber combat—true combat, where his opponent was trying to kill him, not just sparring matches.

But that had been when he was a child, and even Xanatos hadn’t been fully trained. Not truly. Oh, he’d owned a Senior Padawan’s proficiency with the weapon, but…

Xanatos hadn’t handled his lightsaber with anywhere near the adeptness the Sith that he and his master were fighting now.

The Sith felt younger than Qui-Gon Jinn—younger, even, than Obi-Wan, and yet used his lightstaff with a comfort and ease that even Master Krell couldn’t match. He and his master had to make full use of their primary fighting style, Ataru, just to stay alive, and the little flourishes the Sith used to show off revealed that he was _holding back_.

That, or he was making good use of the extra stamina that came from being both younger and fresher than the two Jedi. Seeking to unnerve them, dispirit them, make them fight not as well or as intensely.

If Obi-Wan were a decade younger, it might’ve even worked.

But his fourteen-old-self would’ve died already, unless the Sith was intentionally drawing this out. Possible. Padmé had said this wasn’t the Sith that killed her.

_Always two there are._

Was this the decoy, to draw the Jedi protectors away from the queen, so the other could kill her?

That idea rang false in the Force.

 _Okay,_ he thought, in the moments when he could strategize. _What is the trap, here?_

The Sith were back, and this young one was a skilled enough fighter to toy with _two_ Jedi known for their competence in combat. That meant that, however good teachers Jedi were, Sith were _better_.

Wasn’t that a terrifying thought?

He spared a moment’s consideration that the year on Mandalore, protecting Satine from assassins while on a planet whose very _culture_ dripped mercenaries, and he hoped he would have opportunity to send her a thank-you. She’d chosen peace for the sake of her people’s long-term survival, but that hadn’t kept her from understanding that sometimes, you had to know how to fight dirty.

Or how to take a kick to the face.

Obi-Wan fell to another platform, and the pain-wrought pause in his thinking gave Padmé’s warning room to ring in his mind.

_‘Don’t let him separate the two of you.’_

This trap was for one of them, then. Obi-Wan, maybe—his friends were all notable in their particular fields of expertise, and his death would therefore have potentially exploitable effects in multiple areas. Quinlan and Siri had been on a joint mission, last he knew. (And if he’d asked his friend to quietly keep an eye on Siri’s assignments, and if Quinlan had looked at him with _understanding_ , neither of them would ever admit it.)

But Padmé had known him, even called him ‘general’.

He shunted the pain aside, leapt back up to the walkway where his master fought the Sith—and why in the galaxy was this refuse center set up this way? there had to be reason, but he couldn’t imagine what—saw the Sith backing towards one of the refuse pits.

 _The perfect place to ditch a body,_ he realized, chill running down his spine, and _ran_ to join his master. _Wait for me!_ he insisted. _It’s a trap! Wait—_

Obi-Wan slid to a stop just before he slammed face-first into the plasma shield, and he stared bleakly at the back of his master’s head, separated from the Sith by a single plasma shield. Touching the plasma would short out his lightsaber, and he had no way of knowing how far into the wall it went, to be able to cut around.

The trap was for _Qui-Gon_.

That was why Padmé hadn’t held her tongue until after the battle. She’d known there would be no after, not for him.

The pain of loss stabbed Obi-Wan, but he shoved it into the Force. His master wasn’t dead yet.

 _Yet_ being the operative word, despite the friends his master had lost over the past few years, friends he was still mourning and missed far more strongly than he’d ever enjoyed his Padawan’s company.

Obi-Wan stared through the plasma shields, locking gazes with the Sith on the far side. The younger man was scowling, scrutinizing him.

Obi-Wan let his fear and pain slip into the Force, and he reached for his Padawan bond to his Master without losing eye contact with the Sith that was about to kill him. _Please, Master. Hold on. I want you to be there at my Knighting. They’ll still be waiting for you, later._

But just as his Master, sure of his own rightness, hadn’t heeded Padmé’s warning, he wasn’t listening to Obi-Wan, either.

* * *

As soon as power came back, Anakin flung up the shields and got the fighter into the air—or maybe he did one of the two and Artoo did the other. Didn’t really matter, as long as they were shielded and ready to get out of there.

He found the lasers as the ship started its startup sequence—which meant the autopilot was back. _Oops._

 _< <I’m overriding the autopilot,>>_ Artoo sent before he could ask, so Anakin focused on destroying some of the Trade Federation droids so they couldn’t hurt anyone else.

“Take this.” He found a button that was probably weaponry, from its location. He hit it, to see what it did. “And this!”

Two torpedoes launched and went over the droids and down the hall…and struck something that looked important.

“Oops,” slipped from Anakin’s lips, because he hadn’t meant to do that. He went back to the lasers and finished getting rid of the droids surrounding them. “Let’s get out of here!”

Artoo agreed.

As they headed out, things started exploding, and Anakin had to swerve and heed the Force and the environment in a way that was far more familiar than combat had been—and it made him realize just how similar the two types of flying really were. His discomfort with the situation fizzled as if it had never been.

He whooped from the fun of it. “Now _this_ is podracing!”

* * *

 _‘Don’t do it,’_ something had whispered, as he’d run down the corridor after the Sith.

Now that he was meditating to recover some energy in the respite granted him by the plasma shield, the voice was distinctly female, annoyed, and demanding. _‘Back up and rejoin your Padawan!’_

As if he would risk Obi-Wan in the tight space. Ataru wasn’t built for that, and the young man hadn’t ever trained in Makashi, to have any knowledge of the forms needed to let the confined quarters be an advantage than a disadvantage.

Small wonder Padmé had known he would die, with how perfectly this room exploited the weaknesses of Ataru. The Sith had planned this, had known he and Obi-Wan were coming.

Just one more piece of evidence that the Queen of Naboo was working _with_ the Sith.

And there he’d been recommending her to the Council as an example why Anakin needed to be trained. He was such a fool.

When the plasma shield fell, he fount hard, seeking to end the battle before his Padawan could rejoin them and be at risk.

Pain rammed his chin, ran through his chest, and he fell.

“ _No_!” Obi-Wan protested.

Sound rushed in Qui-Gon’s ears, of lightsabers and the flow of the Living Force he loved so dearly. He felt himself drawing nearer to his old friends who’d left him behind.

He forced himself to wait, to not move on just yet. His Padawan would win the fight. His Padawan _had_ to win the fight.

Someone had to take care of Anakin, to make sure he didn’t end up in Padmé’s clutches. Even if the Council accepted him for training, he could decide to stay among the Naboo. The boy _had_ gotten friendly with one of the handmaidens…

“Master!” Obi-Wan dropped to his knees beside him, propped him up. “Hold on!”

“Promise,” Qui-Gon managed to say. “Promise me you’ll train the boy.”

They couldn’t risk waiting for someone else to volunteer, not with Padmé—and therefore the Sith—aware that the Jedi had found the Chosen One.

“Of course,” Obi-Wan said, tears thick in his voice.

And Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn slipped from the pain of his too-old, too-injured body into the bright light of the Force.

He started to drift away, to crumble into the Light that had supported him for so long, and _something_ grabbed hold of him and shoved him back together.

He coalesced back into awareness in a sea of white, where a woman was glaring at him. There was something vaguely familiar about her, though that could’ve been from or due to any one of the many missions he’d attended in his long life.

“Not near as long as it should’ve been,” the woman snapped, “if you’d truly wanted to undermine the Sith. She _told_ you not to split up!”

The woman’s voice cued him in, the pitch and roll to it reminding him of the Naboo. “You’re Padmé’s grandmother.”

She scowled, looking him over. “You might’ve known my sister, too. She left your Order as a Padawan. I think that was your generation, but you might’ve still been in the creche.”

Every generation lost a few Padawans, so he wasn’t too surprised that he’d forgotten whomever she was referring to. Part of why he’d been so hurt by Obi-Wan’s departure on Melinda-Daan was that Xanatos had abandoned him, too.

He felt a snap of energy, and a nebulous stinging in its wake.

“Yes, let’s make this all about _you_ ,” the woman snapped. “Not about the Sith whose hands you played into.”

Qui-Gon scowled. “The Sith your granddaughter is working with, you mean?”

The woman tossed her hands in the air and left abruptly, and in the wake of her movement in the Force, something drew tightly around him and anchored him where he was.

Jedi teachings were that a sentient became one with the Force when they died. He’d _felt_ that starting.

Why had it stopped?

How?

* * *

The Neimoidian viceroy for the Trade Federation, Nute Gunray, blinked his large, watery eyes and spoke with a voice like oil. “Your little insurrection is at an end, Your Highness. Time for you to sign the treaty…and end this pointless debate in the Senate.”

Sabé didn’t cut in, and Padmé realized they’d reached this point faster than they had Before. She let her confusion show and wished she could reach out in the Force to get an idea how long she’d have to stall, but Darth Maul would survive, somehow, and live to murder Satine.

(She added it to the already far-too-long list of things she was going to have to try to change.)

“An insurrection requires action against a locale’s legitimate government,” she pointed out, taking advantage of the viceroy’s current obsession to draw out the conversation. “You are not the legitimate governing body.”

“Once we have the treaty, this unpleasant discussion will not matter.”

“Such a document would not apply retroactively,“ she answered, stepping past the openings he’d given, in his much-sanitized choice of words, that would let her nudge him into restarting the conversation.

“We have allies who will handle that,” Viceroy Gunray replied.

 _Before or after they have you killed?_ , she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking. That would show far too much comprehension and competence for her presumed age and experience.

“The only question,” the viceroy continued smoothly, “is how much more…persuasion will need to be applied. We would never apply undue pressure, but our allies…”

“You mean the Sith we left in the p—pilots’ bay, facing two Jedi known to be excellent swordsmen?” Her face was cold from her near-slip into admitting where the Jedi were now. “You would have him—”

By Shiraya, she’d forgotten just how much she knew of Sith techniques. Even during the Clone Wars, most people hadn’t known about Force lightning or—

Her throat went tight, and she blinked away the memory of Anakin’s furious face.

“Viceroy!” Sabé called from down the hall. “Your occupation here has ended!”

Sabé and her group shot a few droids.

“After her!” Viceroy Gunray ordered. “This one’s a decoy!”

The bulk of the guards went after the bait.

While the Trade Federation’s representatives were distracted, Padmé stumbled for the throne and the hidden compartment of blasters, as quiet as she had been Before, despite how lightheaded she felt.

She wished Eirtaé had come up the wall with her, but she made do with who she had. “Captain!”

Padmé tossed Panaka a blaster, shot most of the remaining guards herself, and waited for one of the guards to seal the doors.

A maelstrom erupted in the Force, making her very glad she was seated. _Qui-Gon?_ No, it hadn’t felt like him.

_Darth Maul?_

She’d have to watch the security holos, listen to the reports, see if Obi-Wan had cut him the same way as Before. If so…how did Maul kill Satine? Because that violence mucking up the Force had definitely been the Sith Apprentice’s death.

Padmé fought the current into something approaching calm, with far too much difficulty, and felt Qui-Gon slip in as she did it.

She hoped Obi-Wan would forgive her the loss.

“Now, Viceroy,” she said, once her voice would come out firm. “Let us discuss that treaty you wanted me to sign.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'd _thought_ this would be the last chapter for this book. There will be at least one more. There are a few plot threads I have to get to specific places before I end this one and start the between-episodes one, and it's taking a bit longer than I expected. Oh, well. All the more for y'all to enjoy, right? ^_^

The comm unit on Anakin’s fighter had blown up, somewhere in the firefight. The other pilots escorted him back down to the planet, Artoo helped him land the unfamiliar fighter, and he felt the other pilots’ confusion as they all got out and tried to figure out who had destroyed the droid control ship.

Obi-Wan had said he just wasn’t trained for this sort of thing _yet_ , and it wasn’t as if Anakin had meant to end up in the battle. And Obi-Wan or Padmé wouldn’t have him beaten or refused rations, regardless.

He took a deep breath and stood up. Shock washed over the other pilots.

Anakin smiled weakly. “Hi?”

* * *

Even Before, Padmé had known that a treaty signed under duress could have its legitimacy contested. She’d just assumed that she, who was owed a favor by the newly-elected chancellor of the Republic, had the contacts necessary to find or create whatever loopholes the Trade Federation was taking its confidence in.

The result was years of legal difficulties and ultimately expenses to her planet, and she could not bring herself to intentionally cause that again. She instead sat with the viceroy and went over the treaty he’d been pressuring her to sign, where security cameras would catch every word (and her conspicuous lack of duress towards the viceroy).

She then had Viceroy Gunray and his lieutenant, Settlement Officer Rune Haako, arrested for their lack of proper entrance visas.

The Neimodian’s spluttering had given her a witnessed and recorded confession that he “had come with the droids” and “hadn’t had opportunity” to get a proper visa.

Padmé didn’t bother rubbing his slip in his face. He’d still see nothing more than a hand-wave of prison time, and a bit more in fees, but at least Naboo would escape countersuit. Probably.

A headache started behind her eyes. She wrestled with the still-rippling Force a bit more, trying to get it _calm_.

“Your Highness,” Captain Panaka said, cutting into her thoughts. “Sio Bibble was taken to Camp Four.”

She stared at him. “Then ensure he is retrieved safely. The people of Theed will need to see that their governor is safe, in the trying days ahead.”

Maybe Panaka was just deferring so much to make clear that he respected her despite her youth, but she wished her captain could just do his job _without_ the hand-holding.

* * *

Padawan Kenobi was kneeling beside his master’s corpse.

Naboo custom was to leave family to mourn in peace, in this sort of situation. Rabé silently signaled the other guards to go, turned to leave, herself…and stopped.

The young Jedi _looked_ composed. Saddened, certainly, but not distraught. He wasn’t crying or even moving.

But she remembered how casually he’d described some beings as having ‘more innate ability’ to harm others, when chatting with Anakin. She’d witnessed him both hold and push with the Force, which meant he could pull and probably break things, too. If he lost control of himself, would those abilities flail out of control?

Even the queen hurried to draw herself together after the nightmares that left her screaming.

Rabé was glad she wasn’t Force-sensitive, herself. Not if Force sensitivity did this, making its victims unable to let themselves feel freely, for fear of what might happen.

She quietly made her way through the plasma shielding, which rotated to ensure that no contamination could cross from the power plant into the trash pit. Naboo’s liquid core meant they had to be more careful about all forms of contamination, unlike molten-core planets, where the lava could normalize most things.

He didn’t move or acknowledge her approach.

The Jedi Master and Padawan had not been particularly demonstrative, although Master Jinn had shown much willingness to communicate through touch of shoulder or hand. Rabé could therefore assume that Padawan Kenobi didn’t care for contact, and maybe not even for proximity.

She circled to the side of the trash pit opposite him and made sure to scuff the sole of her shoe against the floor as she sat.

He didn’t respond.

Rabé took that as tacit permission to stay.

* * *

Sabé took advantage of her current status as active decoy to seek to draw out any lingering guards, but the pilots had apparently succeeded with the droid control ship. Her team made sure the palace was secure…and found the surviving pilots with Anakin, who was apparently the reason the entire mission succeeded.

Since she was playing Amidala, Sabé had one of her guards stay to take down the names of the pilots (surviving and not) and their call signs, for the sake of the ceremonies that were needed. That also gave them another person to help them get started on the cleanup, since she was taking Ric Olié for his report.

She also brought the boy with her when she rejoined the real queen in the throne room.

Her Highness flicked a glance her way, and she had Sabé’s remaining guards help take the Trade Federation’s spluttering representatives down to the cells.

She then looked to Pilot Olié. “The attack on the droid control ship went well?”

“Thanks to Anakin,” Olié said. “The shields were too strong. Somehow, he got up there and blew it up from the _inside_.”

“Artoo helped,” Anakin blurted.

Amusement tugged at Her Highness’s lips and eyes. “The droid will get another commendation, then, and you both will get due credit for your parts in the saving of our planet.”

The boy responded to the praise with flushed cheeks, widened eyes, and a hunched half-step back. Something in the movement struck Sabé as odd. It wasn’t discomfort, exactly—well, not _just_ that.

She recognized the emotion or the action, or maybe even both, but something about the sight in the usually sheepish or exuberant younger boy kept her from being able to identify them.

“We’re currently tracking down who was taken where,” the queen said, “but so far it looks as if government officials and palace personnel were all taken to Camp Four.”

“Your Highness?” asked Captain Panaka, obviously confused.

Sabé had spent hours in front of the mirror, learning to mimic Her Highness, and that ever-so-faint annoyance peeking through polite professionalism was an expression she hadn’t mastered yet. She still wasn’t quite sure what produced the expression. Something about the eyes, maybe?

In any event, she wasn’t even sure if anyone else in the room could read it.

“The few officials we have confirmed locations on are all in that camp, _and_ that’s where the battle droids sought to take us before the Jedi showed up.”

What the queen did not say, but Sabé so clearly heard, was _Why aren’t you noticing this yourself, Captain?_

Which had Sabé wondering where Her Highness had learned so much more than what Captain Panaka had taught them all.

* * *

Eirtaé was the etiquette specialist, not one of the handmaidens whose primary duty was cleaning, but she chose to look through the rooms used by their uninvited guests, herself.

The viceroy and his lieutenant had left a few flimsies that could be helpful in the lawsuit, assuming the handwriting matched. The insect remains and mud, she had the sense that Gungans wouldn’t find it quite as gross. (If they did, she’d help Fé clean it. But if they didn’t, why not ask them to handle it?)

The Sith, though…

The Jedi and queen were too busy to deal with it, right then. Eirtaé was Force-sensitive and could run if she sensed a warning.

She would have probably felt a lot better about this if she knew what a Sith was, precisely. From his eagerness to murder or assassinate, she assumed it was nothing good, but maybe that was the fault of the example and not the philosophy.

Eirtaé took a deep breath and stepped in the suite.

* * *

Rabé figured her queen’s visions had accounted for her detour from her regular duties, since her comlink remained still.

Even if it were to vibrate, though, she wasn’t certain she’d answer. Her silent presence seemed to comfort the padawan. Perhaps this vigil was a Jedi thing.

Rabé wasn’t sure how long they sat there, but her limbs were tingling with sleep by the time Padawan Kenobi spoke.

“He wouldn’t listen,” he said, his voice soft and sad. “She warned him, and he wouldn’t _listen_.”

His breathing trembled, despite the depth and slowness to it. “He didn’t _want_ to listen,” the padawan added, his voice firmer but far more brittle. “He’s happier now. I’m _trying_ to remember that.”

The Jedi Master had lost someone? “Even if he’s with people he loves, that doesn’t stop the pain for those left behind,” she said quietly.

“To be a Jedi is to eschew all attachments to others.”

That sounded a good way to develop mental health problems. She kept her frown internal, though she was sure the Jedi could sense it. “Is it really to avoid _all_ attachment, though? Or is it just that you have to be able to give someone up when it’s time?”

Padawan Kenobi didn’t look away from Master Jinn’s body, but his breathing stuttered. “I suppose it does depend on the attachment, doesn’t it?”

Rabé didn’t know enough about Jedi culture to understand what the padawan meant, but she could see the tension seeping from the padawan’s body. That was sufficient for her.

It was only a few minutes longer before he stood in a simple, fluid motion that admitted the physical training Jedi went through. He came around to Rabé and gave her a hand up. She stumbled a little, but he let her catch herself without assuming she’d be able to.

Once she was steady on her feet, he held her hand between both of his. “Thank you.”

She managed a small smile as ‘You’re welcome,’ and she gave his hand a slight squeeze before she reclaimed hers. “What customs do we need to follow with the body?”

“Jedi are cremated,” he answered, and the rough but candid reply said she’d guessed right that he needed something to focus on. “The Council… Oh, they still need to be notified.”

‘Daunted’ was an expression Rabé was quite familiar with. The handmaidens often experienced it, when training.

“I can make the call for you,” she said.

He shook his head. “Thank you, but I…have to make the report myself.”

She didn’t glance to Master Jinn’s body, letting the Jedi indicate what his customs demanded.

Padawan Kenobi knelt and lifted the corpse with the utmost care, probably augmenting his grip with the Force. (His teacher was both bigger and heavier than he was.)

“If you could direct me to where to put him and then to the communication center, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Rabé answered.

* * *

No matter how Padmé worked at it, between organizing the dissolution of the Trade Federation’s camps and scheduling the cleanup process to for the necessary funerals and celebrations, she couldn’t get the current of the Force to smoothen. It kept getting caught on something, like a boulder in the middle of a river, or a snag in the weft of a fabric.

Rather than wait for the Gungans to complain after they joined the cleanup crews, she included their siesta in the schedule from the start. It had made things run so much smoothly, even among the Naboo, and including it would avoid some administration headache that she’d stumbled into, Before, in her ignorance of Gungan culture.

But it was still the day of the battle, so their peoples were still busy with their separate things. The Naboo generally assumed the break she ordered was intended for mealtime. Padmé didn’t bother correcting them—they’d learn otherwise, soon enough—and grabbed a packet of emergency rations before she followed the ripples in the Force down to the power station.

Specifically, to the trash pit where both the Sith Apprentice and Jedi Master had died.

She frowned as she stared at the floor where Qui-Gon Jinn had fallen.

“I was beginning to wonder if you would even come.”

Hair prickled on the back of Padmé’s neck, and she had spun around and pointed one of her holdout blasters at the speaker behind her before she processed the voice as her _grandmother_.

Her _dead_ grandmother, translucent and aglow with the Force, younger than Padmé had ever seen her.

“Nana?” she asked carefully, keeping her weapon steady.

The apparition that looked so very much like Nana Naberrie outright beamed at the blaster in Padmé’s hand. “Very good, dear. Force illusions are far more probable than Force ghosts.”

She poked at the Force, but she only caught the whispers of her grandmother’s aura because she was watching for them. “You’re masking your presence.”

Nana looked pointedly past Padmé to the spot where Qui-Gon had died. “ _Someone_ can’t hold himself together, yet, and he’s refusing to listen to me for long enough so I can tell him how.”

That sounded very much like the man. Padmé sighed. “That mess in the Force is you?”

“Essentially. It’ll stop once he’s doing it for himself. May I tell him?”

She frowned. What did her permission have to do with telling the Jedi how to become a Force ghost?

“What your ‘visions’ are, Padmé. He’s convinced you’re working with the Sith.”

Indignation swelled, hot and fast, and resignation doused it just as quickly. “Understandable,” she said. “That theory’s a lot more plausible than me being a dead woman from the future.”

Nana had a distant look in her eyes, as she did when trying to remember something. “Did you ever meet…Tholme? He’s a Jedi Master now, I think.”

The name felt familiar, as if others she knew would recognize it, but she did not. “No.”

“You need to arrange an introduction. He was in the Jedi creche with my sister. He never admitted what he’d noticed about her that made him seek me out, but we would chat, sometimes. He’s a healer, but…” She shook her head. “That isn’t _all_ he is, if you take my meaning. Sometimes the light must work in shadow.”

Padmé blinked at her grandmother’s ghost, remembering how Valorum had called her that, a ‘shadow’. “Is a shadow some kind of Jedi?”

Nana shrugged.

* * *

The stew steamed in front of him, and others around Obi-Wan were digging in with gusto.

He stared at it, trying to get up the interest to at least take a bite, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He was a padawan without a master, again, and that brought back ugly memories of the time after Melinda-Daan, when the Council had him on probation and Qui-Gon hadn’t wanted to take him back.

Rabé was beside him, quietly eating her own food. He wasn’t sure if her presence was her own decision, or if it was something that Padmé or Eirtaé had requested of her, but he appreciated it.

He appreciated her willingness to let silence lay still even more.

A familiar Force presence approached, and Obi-Wan didn’t process it as _Quinlan_ until the Kiffar slid into the open seat beside him.

Quinlan could be irreverent and brash, and a number of people in the Order never saw past that to notice the considerate and cunning man beneath. The quiet and gentle embrace his friend sent in the Force? Didn’t surprise him.

That his friend was present at all? Did.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he blurted.

The question came out so rudely, but Quinlan didn’t take offense—evidence, to anyone who was watching, that he wasn’t nearly as temperamental as gossip claimed.

Impulsive? Maybe, but Obi-Wan suspected that Quinlan didn’t do anything without considering the audience or location. Even now, he wore mercenary leather and sprawled in the chair, as if he were just some devil-may-care foreigner who had decided to sit beside and heckle the Jedi.

Rabé was watching him from the corner of her eye, her aura revealing wariness.

Quinlan ignored it, leaning forward and plucking a roll from the center of the table. “We were in the area. Figured you could use some help with…” He gestured around them with the roll, shrugged, and took a bite.

In other words, Quinlan and his padawan had stopped by to look into the Force-sensitive young woman who had recognized and unraveled a Force suggestion from her own mind in front of the Jedi High Council.

Regret pulled at the edges of Quinlan’s eyes. “Obi-Wan…”

“It’s not your fault. Qui-Gon…” The words caught in his throat. Obi-Wan worked through a few slow, deep breaths before he could finish, “My Master was ready to go.”

His friend tossed his roll up and caught it a few times. “It being time to let go doesn’t always mean we’re ready to.”

The quiet words had a weight to them. Whether Quinlan was speaking of his parents or of whomever he’d chosen to give up for the sake of being a Jedi, he _knew_ what Obi-Wan was feeling, right now.

Tears pricked at his eyes, and he focused on his breathing and the Force to push it back. He was representing the Jedi Order. Crying would have to wait until he was in the privacy of his rooms that night.

And maybe, if he worked at it, he could be too tired to do even that.

Quinlan sighed faintly.

A cry for help rang through the Force. Both Jedi jumped to their feet.

“Eirtaé!” Obi-Wan said, for Rabé’s sake, then ran after the feeling, his friend at his heels.

 _I’m coming_ , he sent, though he wasn’t sure the blond handmaiden had enough awareness or sensitivity to be able to hear it.

Whether she did or just assumed he had heard, she next sent a map of the area of the palace she was in, which made it a lot easier to get there quickly.

He and Quinlan slid to a stop in the hallway outside the room she was inside. The room itself had an unsettled presence the Force that told Obi-Wan who—or rather, what—had used it. Quinlan’s particular talents meant the sensation was doubtless worse for him.

Both Jedi kept their breathing controlled and quiet as they approached, but the raised voice coming out the open door meant that caution was probably overkill.

“Your loyalty is to your _family_. Not to the job you received as a courtesy prize for _failing_.”

The voice was male and adult, and anger passed from Quinlan into the Force.

“Remember who’s paying for your schooling and electoral campaign. Would you like to shoulder that debt?”

That confirmed it was probably Eirtaé’s father.

Obi-Wan paused, considered how the handmaiden conducted herself, and signaled for Quinlan to go casual. Then they both strolled on in.

Eirtaé didn’t resemble her father at all. That was the first thing he noticed about the man. It wasn’t just that the man scowled where the handmaiden was politely professional—they didn’t even _look_ related, and something in the Force confirmed that observation.

The handmaiden’s back was stiff; her shoulders, hunched; and her hands, tucked inside her sleeves and pressed against her stomach. Whatever she was holding sent ripples of Darkness into the Force.

They’d entered quietly, and the man was between the handmaiden and the door. He hadn’t noticed them yet.

Her relief was palpable only in the Force.

More anger rolled off Quinlan, which was probably why so many Jedi bought the lie that he was hotheaded. But that sensation was him dumping his anger in the Force, not clinging to the emotion.

 _Maybe,_ Obi-Wan realized suddenly, _the people who call him hotheaded do so for fear of how easily he_ could _be._

The man slapped Eirtaé across the face with one hand, and she took a half-step back as he grabbed with the other. She was a hair too slow to dodge entirely, and he got her wrist and pulled it from her sleeve, grasping far too hard.

She fought to keep her grip on the so obviously Dark pyramid-shaped holocron, leaning back and leveraging her weight.

Though he and his friend hadn’t discussed the situation in advance, Quinlan grabbed the man from behind as Obi-Wan circled and freed Eirtaé’s wrist. That counterbalance had been all that was keeping her up, and he caught her before she hit the floor.

Obi-Wan also put himself between Eirtaé and the man who had apparently raised her, who was sputtering about how he was of a House and they couldn’t treat him like this.

He glanced at Quinlan, who surpassed him in rank and seniority.

“What do you want with him, sir?” his friend said flatly, sounding more like a guard than a Jedi.

 _Well, if that’s the way you want to play it…_ “Eirtaé?” he asked the handmaiden. “We both witnessed him strike you.”

She hadn’t even touched her face yet, which meant she was outright _used_ to that sensation. Hopefully that familiarity stemmed from her training as bodyguard, but what Obi-Wan had seen of her father gave him little hope of that.

“Just show him out, please,” she said quietly, resignation in her voice.

Quinlan met his gaze over the man’s shoulder, wordlessly promising to return, and hauled the man out without letting him see who held him.

She still gripped the holocron, and Obi-Wan tried not to shiver.

She waited until Quinlan and her father were out of even the hallway before she spoke again. “I have to deliver this to the queen. Are you going to fight me on that, too?”

The holocron was a Sith design, and what he felt from it left no doubt as to its legitimacy. Jedi were supposed to claim such things—by force, if necessary, for they were far too dangerous in the wrong hands.

The Force sensitivity displayed by the queen and her handmaiden made the holocron _more_ dangerous, not less.

Obi-Wan found himself staring at the red marks developing on her cheek. No matter that many Jedi would outright order him to claim the holocron, in this situation—he was not going to show her the same disrespect she’d just received from her own father.

“That is a Sith artifact,” he said outright. “I’ll have to report it to the Council, and they will insist on claiming it.”

He took a step back, though, wordlessly telling her that he intended to follow due process, not to force the issue right then.

The smile she gave him was watery but relieved. “Let’s take it to the queen, then.”

* * *

Something shifted in the light around Qui-Gon, and he heard the woman’s voice before he saw her.

“Mass can’t transfer through time.”

He turned and found Padmé’s grandmother seated at an illusion of a loom, weaving an illusionary tapestry. “What does that have to do with your granddaughter working with a _Sith_?”

She gave him a frank look. “You think a Sith so focused on physical prowess that he trained a young man for the express purpose of killing Jedi, would see a young girl as anything more than a pawn?”

He blinked at her, nonplussed by her point.

She adjusted her loom and yarn and started another row. “Time is tied to physical matter. The Force can let you walk past that, if you know what paths to take and the right beings to persuade. Padmé saw the galaxy fall, and she overwrote her eight-year-old self with the memories from however old she was when she died.”

That was so ridiculous that Qui-Gon wondered if he _had_ somehow survived and was in some sort of fever dream.

“No fever dream, I’m afraid. And no more ridiculous than the way your Order on Coruscant presumes to speak for all Lightsiders, including the other Jedi temples.” Her hands moved as swiftly as her words. “At least that sort of hypocrisy is easy. Going back through time and essentially murdering your younger self so you can supplant her is far less so.”

She gave him an arch glance even while the question formed in his mind. “Yes, I did it once. My granddaughter _still_ ended up murdered, despite my efforts, and one choice I made to protect her might well have been the cause.”

He frowned, still unconvinced that he wasn’t hallucinating. “So why not try again yourself? Why have her do it?”

“She asked to,” the woman said simply. “And she has a far better chance of succeeding than I ever could.”

Considering her granddaughter was currently a planetary leader, that suggested some unpleasant things about what sort of power and position the Sith currently had.

“She ends up knowing a lot of Jedi,” the woman commented. “I only ever knew Tholme.”

Qui-Gon stared. “You know _Tholme_?!”

She blinked, apparently startled by his surprise. “Well, yes. He knew my sister in the creche. Why do you ask?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eirtaé found an artifact in the Sith’s rooms,” Padawan Kenobi said. “I’ll have to tell the Council, and they’ll claim it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …And this book keeps growing.
> 
> I am not used to a single title exploding at the end like this. Series ending up having more installments than I expected? Sure. A single story exploding this much without warning when I get to the end? Nope.
> 
> So at this point, let's just say I have no idea how long it's going to be, because everything keeps growing on me.
> 
> As a world-building note, this chapter diverges more from canon—I'm moving past extrapolations from in-canon details about the handmaidens and adding more about them. So fans of handmaidens, enjoy! ^_^
> 
> P.S. Sickness + allergic reaction = not fun, in case anyone was wondering.

Jedi didn’t track down _people_ they’d known in the creche who went into the service corps or left the Order. Looking for the family of someone they’d known was even stranger.

Qui-Gon wondered if maybe Tholme had felt for this woman comparably to how he had for Tahl. “How did your sister die?”

Padmé’s grandmother stared at him, her hands stopping mid-row on the loom. “My sister isn’t dead.”

The woman resumed her illusionary weaving. “No, Wialu decided the Jedi were too violent and joined some pacifist group on Lucazec.”

“I see.” This was both too strange yet not strange enough to be a fever dream. “Padmé didn’t mention that you’d lingered as a ghost.”

“She didn’t know.” She turned and stood, the loom and weaving disappearing as if they’d never been. “Now, pay attention to the flow of the Force around you. It’s willing to let you dissipate, but it’ll let you stay if you ask it.”

 _Ask_ the Force to stay? He blinked at her but tentatively reached out with all his mastery of the Living Force. Once he got his senses past whatever was holding him, he could feel something attentive, patient, and waiting for his response.

 _I don’t want to leave just yet,_ he sent to it, feeling ridiculous.

A sensation of acceptance answered him, and the something moved off, willing to return when and if he wanted it.

He sensed the woman tug at a few spots in the Force around him, and whatever was gripping him unraveled as if it had never been.

Perhaps her illusion had illustrated how she interacted with the Force?

The thought a bit unsettling, due to how incompatible that imagery was with Jedi teachings, but it also explained some of how her granddaughter used her abilities.

Qui-Gon realized they’d never made proper introductions. “Could we try this again? I’m Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn.”

The woman smiled. “Winama.”

He wasn’t sure if he was looking forward to what Winama Naberrie could teach him, but it at least promised to be interesting.

* * *

Rabé made herself finish her meal, since she was sure she’d be busy and chances to eat would be limited. Padawan Kenobi had said the danger was to Eirtaé, not the queen, and she trusted him to be honest about that.

She finished, nodded to Anakin and the makeup-free Sabé as they sought somewhere to sit with their meals, then headed for the nearest terminal, so she could try to track Eirtaé’s communicator.

Yané approached, her hands positioned to say her message was from another member of the queen’s employ but not the queen herself, at the moment. “Her Highness sent Captain Panaka to liberate Camp Four.”

Rabé frowned. Saché had hurt her leg and was off-duty. Sabé was with Anakin. Eirtaé was…wherever the Jedi had run off to. If Captain Panaka wasn’t present, who was left to guard the queen?

“You can’t do this!” caught her ear. “I am the leader of a House! I’ll have your commission!”

Yané flinched, fear flashing over her face.

Rabé signed acceptance of the message, with no response to return to the sender.

The relief and speed with which Yané scurried away made Rabé concerned for the young handmaiden and her brothers. If she remembered correctly, Yané had been accepted for the position more because her family needed the financial support rather than because it suited her. Perhaps her mother would be better off as a single parent. One of Rabé’s aunts was in that situation, and the resultant cousins were brothers to her.

Rabé directed her steps to find the nobleman who was blustering at some member of the guard.

She wasn’t exactly surprised to see the Kiffar hauling Eirtaé’s father, but the manner with which the Kenobi’s friend did so caught her eye as interesting. The Lord of House Frizmar couldn’t get any glimpse of who held him, with how his arms were twisted behind his back, and the Kiffar maintained the position with an ease that indicated good balance and core strength.

“Lord Frizmar,” she said as she approached.

“Handmaiden! Where is the queen? This is outrageous!”

“Handmaiden Frizmar ordered him seen out,” the Kiffar said with a flat professionalism that hid his lack of local accent.

“My daughter has no right to order such a thing!”

Actually, Eirtaé _did_ , but Rabé knew better than to confront his type with such inconvenient facts. “Her Highness is currently busy with matters pertaining to the reconstruction,” she said politely instead, tacitly reminding him that pressing for an audience at this time could result in negative publicity.

Lord Frizmar glowered at her.

Rabé held her calm professionalism, almost hoping he would dare lash out at _her_.

The man kept scowling, and Rabé gave a little shrug and turned to escort the Kiffar to the proper exit for the situation. Lord Frizmar was distracted enough by the inherent dismissal that he didn’t notice where she led, or even that she signaled the Kiffar to put the man through without exiting, himself.

It was only after the Kiffar shoved him out the small door and Rabé slammed the Door of Censure in his face that Lord Frizmar realized where they were, and he howled in indignation.

Her smile showed a little, she was sure, but she was also certain the Kiffar would read it properly. “The Door of Censure records everyone put through it,” she said.

She considered her location in the palace. She still needed a terminal, to track down everyone’s commlinks, so she started that way. “I’ll fetch you the form for providing testimony as to why he was put there. Did anyone else witness what he did?”

“Handmaiden Frizmar,” he said, his tone admitting that he knew Eirtaé wouldn’t file, even while he walked with her. “Knight Kenobi.”

Oh, and Kenobi was a planetary hero, which would make his testimony carry extra weight. Rabé struggled to restrain her grin, even while she asked, “Knight?”

“He killed a Sith. That technically confers Knighthood automatically.”

That tradition seemed…violent, for alleged peacekeepers. From his shrug, he noticed that, too.

He flexed his hands, and the gloves caught her eye.

“Quinlan Vos,” he said.

“Rabé Lassair.” She glanced pointedly at his hands and lifted an eyebrow in query.

He gave an enigmatic half-smile that said he wasn’t telling. “Your dad like hers?”

“An uncle,” she replied, a bit surprised by the question. People usually didn’t even notice the signals, and those who did rarely said anything directly. “I grew up with that aunt and cousins.”

Jedi Vos—probably a Knight, from his age, but he also had a Padawan, so maybe that made him a Master?—gave her a pointed glance that she was wasn’t entirely grown up yet. She shrugged a shoulder and smiled in acknowledgement.

“Eirtaé and Obi-Wan were heading to the queen,” he said. “I’ll fetch my Padawan and meet up with them while you get that paperwork in order?”

A reasonable suggestion, and his pitch called it open to negotiation. What he described also meant the queen was protected or at least would be by the time Rabé could possibly reach her, so there wasn’t any point in hurrying. “Will you teach me later? How you held him?”

She gestured back towards the door, as if she could’ve meant anyone else.

Jedi Vos’s smile was warm. “Sure.”

* * *

Padawan Kenobi was disconcertingly polite about the device that Eirtaé had found. He was obviously worried about it—he even followed her into the fresher, when she detoured to tend her face—but it seemed to be more concern about what it might do to her, rather than fear that she’d run off with it.

Or maybe it was just concern for her, from his expression when she adeptly covered the marks with makeup.

He didn’t ask or push, though. She appreciated that.

The queen was in the throne room, still without her makeup or proper attire, without a single guard in the room. Eirtaé frowned.

Her Highness gave a little wave of dismissal, hardly looking up from her data reader. “This is a gaffe, I know, but Sabé’s taken Anakin to get something to eat, and I sent Panaka to liberate Camp Four. Switching back can wait until tomor…”

She turned and stared towards Eirtaé’s hands, which she’d tucked into her sleeves to hide what she held.

“Eirtaé found an artifact in the Sith’s rooms,” Padawan Kenobi said. “I’ll have to tell the Council, and they’ll claim it.”

The queen’s face had gone white, illustrating why the rulers of Naboo wore the paint. (Well, one reason why. ‘It interferes with facial recognition tech’ wasn’t a reason that could be admitted freely, and even the folks who knew about _that_ usually only knew that it helped a ruler be able to quietly return to the private sector, after their terms were up. The queen’s current lack of paint could sabotage her future safety, if the wrong person got the data.)

Her Highness approached with quick steps, hands outstretched.

“ _Dad,_ ” she said, voice small, though her emotions seemed to lay still in the Force.

“I’m sorry?” Padawan Kenobi asked.

She took the device from Eirtaé and tucked it in her own sleeve, a shudder going up her arms even while relief crossed her face and loosened her shoulders. “It isn’t—I thought it might’ve been something that should be in my father’s possession, but I was mistaken.”

 _Padawan Kenobi_ ’s face went white, and his flare of alarm was clear but hastily wrestled under control. “Your father owns a Sith artifact?” he asked quietly.

She stared at him a moment, then shook her head. “As I said, I was mistaken.”

“The pyramid is a Sith design.”

“Um, not necessarily,” someone said from behind them.

Eirtaé turned to see a Rutian Twi’lek, little older than they were, dressed in black and had a string of beads tied to one lekku. The girl blushed at their attention.

“Master Secura!” Her Majesty said happily, lighting up. “How are you?“

The silence that followed was made all the more awkward by the Twi’lek’s unvoiced incredulity and bewilderment.

Realization washed through the queen, cold as ice. “Padawan Secura, I am deeply sorry. I…”

Eirtaé could feel her fighting for words.

“Her Highness dreams the future,” Padawan Kenobi said. “Don’t feel too bad. She’s seen me as a general.”

“You made Councilor before she did,” the queen blurted, then froze a moment before she shook her head again. “Oh, Shiraya help me.”

Eirtaé knew little of Force visions, and she’d only been researching the High Council last night and this morning, but this… This was bringing to mind the legends that her father had always been furious to find her reading, considering them frivolous wastes of time.

“Here.” The queen handed Padawan Kenobi the data reader she’d been consulting. “I was just double-checking the schedule for redundancies and inefficiencies, and you’ve always been better at that than I am, anyway. I’m going to go…meditate, I guess. I need to meditate before he gets here.”

She started for the exit, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Kriffing Force ghosts,” but that couldn’t have been—

“You’ve met a Force ghost?”

The queen stared at Padawan Secura, who looked hopeful, then glanced to Padawan Kenobi, who looked confused.

“It wasn’t Master Jinn,” the queen answered slowly, then grimaced and gave Padawan Kenobi a sad little smile. “For what little it’s worth, I _am_ sorry for your loss, Obi-Wan—I mean…”

A few seconds ticked by, and she riffled through her thoughts, the confusion far too thick and a distance in her eyes.

“Padawan,” he prodded.

“But you killed a Sith in combat. That makes you a Knight, now—or has that law been rescinded already?”

That phrasing confirmed Eirtaé’s suspicions, at least enough for her to act as if they were valid.

A conspicuous scuff of sole against flooring turned everyone’s attention to the door, and the rough-looking Kiffar who’d shown her father out strolled in. His gaze flicked to her cheek before it danced around the room at large.

Eirtaé’s face went hot. Master Jinn’s treatment of Kenobi meant she didn’t mind him knowing of her father—he’d hold his peace and his tongue. This man, though? She had no idea, and she knew better than to trust anything a professional liar said.

“Master?” Padawan Secura asked.

She blinked in surprise that he was a _Jedi_ —and one with a Padawan older than she was, even though the man himself felt Kenobi’s age. She hadn’t known Jedi could be intelligence agents.

“Your Highness,” the Kiffar said loudly, with an easy smile. “My Padawan will go with you. She can help you meditate.”

And keep her from wandering around unguarded, he didn’t say.

The queen glanced down towards her own sleeves. “And watch that I don’t do anything foolish with the holocron. Of course.”

Her Highness frowned at the Kiffar, though, studying him.

Silence welled.

“Padmé?” Kenobi prodded.

She startled. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m sorry, Master Vos. I should go.”

She did so with swift steps, Padawan Secura on her heels, and Eirtaé decided to consider the Twi’lek a temporary handmaiden, insofar as etiquette went. The queen had certainly been pleased to see her.

For his part, the man waited for the queen to be well down the hall before the good humor vanished from his expression, and he gave her a solemn _look_.

“Quinlan, please,” Kenobi protested.

Hadn’t he said the name before? Something in the conversation about his friends.

A wave of reassurance arose from Vos and broke over Kenobi, even while the Kiffar circled Eirtaé with a scrutiny that would’ve been worrying and possibly even frightening, if not for how felt in the Force.

The man reminded her of a lagoon, aware of the sea’s whims and only minimally protected from it, and all the stronger for that fact.

Eirtaé carefully pictured stretching her feeling of inquiry outside of herself, and tried to let it dribble into the Force around her.

Vos’s eyebrows rose, and he gave a quick glance over her shoulder to the other Jedi.

Kenobi, for his part, restrained a chuckle. “Eirtaé has _no_ training whatsoever.”

Surprise flashed, and Vos’s expression melted into friendliness darkened by some haunting memory. “Okay, sit your ass down. Time for some basic meditation and shielding.”

“Quinlan?” Kenobi asked, and his inflection made Eirtaé remember where he’d used the name before.

“You’re the friend that Lumara _expects_ to make double entendres,” she said.

Vos’s eyebrows went back up. “Luminara—and you _told_ her about that?”

“It just slipped out. Not like—Quinlan, she’s _fourteen_.”

“And blonde,” Vos quipped, then winced. “And _fourteen_. Right. Not your type at all.”

“She’s like Luminara.”

“Oh.” He sent apology in the Force. “Never your type, then. Ass on the floor, Handmaiden, unless you want to start with moving meditation.”

Eirtaé frowned, puzzled by his insistence. “Why does it matter?”

“You’ve just started figuring out how to use the Force, right?”

She nodded.

“The more you use, the more skills you’ll stumble into, and trust me—you will need to know how to center and shield yourself.”

Horror rang in the Force from Kenobi. “She’s like you?”

“In some ways,” Vos said grimly. He glanced over at his friend. “You want to join us, or to look over that data like Amidala asked you to?”

Kenobi considered the data reader. “I think,” he said carefully, “that Her Highness probably set things up in _precisely_ the way they need to happen.”

“Jedi have stories of time travel, too?” Eirtaé blurted, her comfort in their presence letting her voice her surprise.

The men exchanged another glance.

“No, we don’t,” Vos said.

“Would you tell us?” Kenobi asked.

“We promise not to tell the Council.”

Kenobi gave his friend a sharp glance. “We do?”

Vos’s succinct _yes_ was solid enough in the Force for Eirtaé to hear, as was Kenobi’s confused but willing acceptance of the promise.

She considered that promise. Considered _them_. These two were the type who sought information in order to help others, not hurt them.

Besides, telling them of a legend was not the same thing as saying Queen Amidala illustrated it. If she minded her words, she could inform them and not actually claim anything.

“Okay,” she said.

The three of them sat down cross-legged in mutual unvoiced agreement.

“It’s not real time travel,” Eirtaé explained, “but the Naboo have legends of how, in times of great need, sometimes someone will _know_ things that can only be explained if…” She cast with the Force, making certain they were alone, but she also lowered her volume to something too low for most to hear. “If their memories are from the future.”

Vos’s expression was thoughtful. “That would fit her mental age.”

“And how she talks about what she knows.” Kenobi grimaced. “I can’t believe we’re discussing this seriously.”

The Kiffar shrugged. “Not the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be, for you.” Dismay struck Kenobi, and he stared at Eirtaé. “And you’re getting _her dreams_.”

“Just snippets from them,” she corrected.

Vos shook his head. “Yeah, meditation and shields. Definitely needed.”

The presumption and demands were twisting Eirtaé’s stomach, even though she _knew_ they didn’t mean it like her father did. “Why does it matter?”

Kenobi was keeping his gaze on his friend.

“With the type of Force skills you two have,” Vos said calmly, “active use without proper protection means that if one of you gets lost, mentally speaking, the other will follow.”

A shiver ran up her arms at the warning that the queen herself was at risk of insanity. Eirtaé wondered how she’d died, Before. “And Jedi meditation and shielding will prevent that?”

“Who said anything about _Jedi_?” Vos asked. “I just said meditation and shielding. Doesn’t matter if you use Jedi techniques, Korun, Neti—kriff, even some of the Dathomiran methods can be used without hurting anyone, though I have to recommend against those.”

“Master Billaba said she was coming to the funeral,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “She’s a Chalactan Adept. I could try to arrange for you to witness her using that.”

“That would work,” Vos said. “They’ll want to meditate with you—though Master Billaba’s tricksy enough that she’ll probably catch that you’re up to something.”

Kenobi gave an ever-so-slight, barely perceptible shrug. “Bucket of paint.”

“Oh, you’re thinking the water soluble?” Vos thought. “Blue?”

“No, green. In honor of my master’s lightsaber.”

“I can do that.”

Eirtaé discreetly pinched herself, but apparently she _had_ just heard these two Knights casually plot to prank a Councilor.

The thought reminded her of the research Her Highness had wanted, and she leapt to her feet. “I’m sorry—I just remembered something the queen told me to do that I never got to her. You two meditate or whatever, and I’ll make sure to leave an opening in my schedule tomorrow or the day after for you to show me that and the shielding.”

Vos glanced to her cheek, in silent question.

Her face went hot, again. “I’ll be fine.”

The Jedi swapped something in the Force, too deftly for her to catch it, but they both accepted her words.

“Thank you for calling me when you needed help,” Kenobi said softly.

She didn’t want to think how that meeting would’ve ended up if she _hadn’t_ known how to try to send anything. “Thank _you_ for coming.”

She scurried out to track down the queen and deliver the information she’d found on the High Councilors.

* * *

Obi-Wan’s insides twisted at the handmaiden’s gratitude over something so simple as a person actually responding to a call for help.

After Eirtaé was out of range to pick up their auras, Quinlan let out a long slow breath and pried an ugly ball of anger and concern out from under his shields. He outright flung it into the Force.

“That kid is far too adept at spotting manipulation,” his friend said grimly, plucking off his gloves and approaching the throne. “And I don’t mean in the way that comes from training.”

“Agreed.” He wondered if the queen knew; she hadn’t acted as if she had, but she seemed more than experienced enough to play oblivious. “But…time travel?”

Quinlan tucked his gloves in his belt. “One way to find out.”

“She knew you,” Obi-Wan blurted, defining his discomfort as he gave it voice. “Do you think she knows…?”

A small percentage of Kiffar had psychometric abilities, giving them psychic impressions and images from things they touched. Not all Force-sensitive Kiffar had it, but all who had it were Force-sensitive enough to be Jedi.

“Probably.” And Quinlan reached out to touch Amidala’s throne.

* * *

Psychometry was both incredibly useful and kriffing horrible to live with, particularly with his line of work. Quinlan could collect information pretty easily, sure, but he also got to see all sorts of shit that he really didn’t care to.

(Perhaps the most innocuous case in point was why he was able to tease Luminara with innuendo. Ironically, Master Ki-Adi-Mundi, whose marriage had been permitted by the Council for procreative reasons, was maybe the only person who bothered to try to avoid leaving related psychic impressions on their equipment. Beyond that…suffice to say certain friends weren’t the only Jedi that he knew had been physically indiscreet.)

So Quinlan touched the throne with full awareness that he would probably see something that would be uncomfortable but useful to his undercover work.

He had not remembered the fact that the queen had been elected only a few months back, and the ruler before her both had held power far too long and had been known for being corrupt. Far more of that king clung to the throne than the newly elected child queen.

In fact, Amidala hadn’t left much of a psychic impression on the throne at all. That meant her shields were good—better than a partially trained fourteen-year-old’s _should_ be, even, adding to the details that made the legend make more sense than other potential explanations.

He followed his instincts to touch one arm of the throne that held a secret compartment. That gave him two visions of Amidala opening it, retrieving blasters that she tossed to guards and then pulled on Gunray. One felt young, and she’d been scared but bold, her mind locked in place. The other felt distracted, her mind fragile, spread thin, and far too old.

He prodded that older one, and the result was a cacophony of imagery that was dizzying even for him.

When he broke out of the visions, he was on the floor, and Obi-Wan was crouched beside him.

He let out a number of curses from the Fringe, blending Kiffa and Basic and Huttese.

“Quinlan?”

He sighed, not looking forward to how they’d have to juggle their reports and stories to keep the queen with the protection she needed without also setting her up for persecution. “Fifty credits on the legend.”

Obi-Wan indulged in a number of impolite terms, himself.

* * *

Padawan Secura felt different from the Jedi Master that Padmé had been acquainted with, and not in a way that she could attribute entirely to age. The differences were more obvious in Vos, reminding her of something that had shifted in Bail and Obi-Wan at some point during the war, and she wondered what had haunted the Master and Padawan, Before.

Was it something that would even happen now, since their itinerary had been changed? How many missions would have changed results due to differences in scheduling?

She shivered and wrestled her attention into a semblance of order. Fretting wouldn’t solve anything. She had to focus on what she _could_ do or prevent, not what she couldn’t.

The core missions, the ones that built Palpatine’s plans—those he’d set up regardless what she did. What happened around that was irrelevant.

 _Should_ be irrelevant, anyway.

She pulled in a slow breath, held it for the count of three, then released it for the same count, doing her damnedest to send the anxiety with it.

‘Anger should be ice, not heat,’ Nana had told her, but what was someone to do with worry?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is partially beta'd again, so my apologies for rough patches. Also sorry for the delay—I had a lot more author's note drafted, abridged it, then realized it was **still** way too long and I had to cut further. (I seriously had to cut something like 65% of it.)
> 
> I actually had to remove some notes and points altogether.
> 
> Per the timeline on Wookiepedia, this story is set before the mission that resulted in Aayla and Quinlan having their memories wiped and the…problems that ensued, so it's currently up in the air for if that glitteryl shit and Aayla's uncle's death are gonna happen at all, or if she'll ever get quietly picked up and trained by Tholme instead of Quinlan for reasons that have more to do with her than Quinlan.
> 
> Legends!canon suggests Jedi culture is such that unusual situations would be commonly overlooked or ignored, which would've worsened canon!Anakin's feeling of isolation because as far as he knew, he was the only special case; and then by the time he learns of others, that "I'm the weird one!" is so ingrained that others would've been seen as exceptions to the rule rather than examples that disprove the rule.
> 
> In any event, there are actual old!canon reasons for how I'm constructing both Quinlan and Aayla, but it's pulling from a lot of little stuff.
> 
> That jungle planet that Aayla dies on, in Episode III? It’s Felucia. I’m figuring Padmé probably knew where she was stationed when they died…and Qui-Gon may not have been entirely accurate in identifying her core talent as _receptive_ telepathy. [whistles innocently]
> 
> The pet T’da can be found on Wookiepedia, but as far as I’ve been able to find, there’s no name (yet) for what the pet actually was. I’ve therefore taken the liberty of calling it a “bunkit”, since Jan Duursema, the creator of the characters involved, has allegedly called it “a Felucian cat-bunny.”

Sabé wasn’t sure what had cued her in that Anakin needed something to _do_ , but helping her take off the paint and unbind her hair soothed his nerves. It also got him mentioning his mother, in a way that admitted where Master Jinn had found him.

Fortunately that was at a point that she could step out into the next room and change, because fury welled, and she didn’t want him to think that was directed at him. She had to be careful so she didn’t rip anything.

 _Slavery_? So close to Naboo?

Sabé breathed out the fury, picturing it as ice melting in the summer sun. Anger wouldn’t solve anything. Even indignation did more harm than good without a specific target, and defining such a thing was the queen’s duty, not hers.

She was certainly going to ask Her Highness about it, though.

She returned back to the outer room, and Anakin’s wariness made her both feel foolish and want to kick herself. The boy had Jedi powers—she knew that, and she’d forgotten it.

“I’m not angry at you,” she said outright. “It’s the slavery. I didn’t know it existed so close to Naboo.”

If Tatooine had it as such a blatant way of life despite all the Republic’s laws against it, where else did it exist in secrecy, protected by the common assumption that it couldn’t possibly exist?

Anakin clung to his caution, keeping his movements small and unobtrusive. Sabé couldn’t blame him, even while her anger flared up again at the evidence of how he’d been raised.

With that thought, she realized that his small, precise actions held fear in them, unlike Rabé’s tendency towards stillness. The boy’s actions also reminded her of Yané, particularly when her mother was around, and cold realization washed through her. If she—who was a mimic and a bodyguard-in-training, taught to read body language—hadn’t realized what she was seeing in people she spent so much time with…

It wasn’t a question of _if_ slavery existed on Naboo, but _where_.

Sabé found herself considering the people she’d known before her time as handmaiden, wondering which of them had given off signals that she in her ignorance had missed. It made her feel horrible and want to check, though that would mean admitting where Panaka had found her.

Sabé had intended to fetch food with Anakin and take it back to the queen, to leave her unattended for as little time as possible, but…the droids were all taken care of, and she’d accepted the order in the first place because the queen needed a moment alone to breathe, and Her Highness was the best shot of them all.

And couldn’t Force-sensitives persons detect danger? That didn’t make them invulnerable—Master Jinn’s death proved that—but it meant that the queen was fully capable of calling in help when she needed it.

So she took Anakin to the dining hall and let him pick what he wanted from the buffet. The reluctance with which he voiced his opinion was very much Yané, and the ever-so-slight amounts fit Yané and Eirtaé both. (She didn’t let herself consider the people she’d known before she was handmaiden. The examples were terrifyingly many.)

Sabé served herself even though her stomach twisted enough that eating would be a struggle. She could at least share it with the boy, who she suspected would be unable to return to the server for seconds. (The tutor for the caravan she’d grown up in had that problem.)

She also commed Yané and informed her of the queen’s situation, to make sure she had standing orders before her mother showed up. (Assuming the woman hadn’t died in the camps, but even that situation would warrant Yané having something to distract her from her grief—or relief, or whatever she felt.)

Anakin was still being quiet and careful when Sabé guided him into the dining hall to look for a place to sit.

Rabé gave them a nod as she left, and Yané approached her by the exit, so she’d promptly be aware that the queen was unattended.

“Let’s sit over here,” Sabé told the boy, leading him to a relative nook set between two large plants. The table itself could seat a dozen people comfortably, but the position and foliage helped it feel more comfortable for the introverts and otherwise socially anxious.

The boy followed her, but his gaze seemed to follow Yané, possibly confirming the similarities she’d noticed.

“Slavery is forbidden on Naboo,” she told him outright. “Even for droids with independent mental processors and power sources.”

He startled and glanced up at her, then out towards one of the piles of scrap from the attacking droids.

“That does make things awkward, with the Trade Federation forces,” she admitted. “I _think_ they would qualify as enemy combatants, where survivors who met our definitions for sentience would count as war criminals. But I’m not a holy woman or an interpreter of the law.”

Anakin was still watching Yané as the girl—closer to his age than Sabé’s, though only just—scurried back out.

“How did you become a handmaid?” he asked.

“I was asked,” she answered. “It is an honor to be a handmaiden, and many volunteer. But I was asked. My resemblance to Her Highness was noted. I was a gymnast—no, I’m sorry.”

Sabé shook her head at herself for sharing the lie that Panaka let her tell the other handmaidens. That wasn’t fair to Anakin, who was floating without anchor in a tide he didn’t even understand.

She still checked for eavesdroppers before admitting, “I was a water mime.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Not at all,” she answered honestly, a bit disconcerted by his lack of reaction to her admission that she’d been of the Unhoused. “My role as handmaiden is both more challenging and more fulfilling.”

“A lot more dangerous, too.”

Sabé bit her lip, realizing he hadn’t understood. “Most people know only that I was a gymnast, not a—not the mime, because… Well, I’m one of the _chief_ handmaidens, and my family…”

There was reason that _Eirtaé_ wrote the queen’s speeches, though that was one of the traditional roles for the primary decoy.

“Miming is dirty or something?”

“It’s not what I did, but where I did it,” she said. “The noble families of Naboo are called Houses. Most families are Housed. Then some are Unhoused—not that Unhoused clans necessarily lack housing, but we have very little. Before Panaka hired me…”

Even after all she’d admitted, the words stuck in her throat. She sought a way she could say. “Tatooine is…sand, yes? You have peoples that travel it in caravans?”

“That’s the way most people live in the desert.”

“Okay. Our planet is mostly water.” She hoped he’d get it from that.

It took him a few bites (and he ate with a speed that Sabé found disconcertingly familiar), but he asked slowly, “Naboo has water caravans, but instead of stealing or selling junk like Jawas do, you…do art stuff?”

“Yes. It’s…like a circus.”

He stared at her blankly, but Sabé was used to that among people her age. Since caravans on her planet _were_ circuses, it was only the older Naboo who tended to know that there was a separate word for the concept. With Anakin’s background as a slave, it wasn’t surprising that he wouldn’t know what a circus was.

“Anyway, my people value beauty.” She indicated the maroon battle dress that she was wearing, which was both practical and pretty. “Some planets disparage the arts. We don’t. But ‘water’ is pejorative, when applied to an art.”

He nibbled a bit more food, and Sabé matter-of-factly moved shaak pudding from her plate to his, since he was liking that one.

He stared at it, then glanced up at her, shoulders hunched. “What’s ‘disparage’ and ‘pejorative’ mean?”

She blinked, for any Naboo would know those words by his age—well, any Naboo of average intelligence and education. Anakin was more than smart enough to understand, so his education was flawed.

 _Well, he was a_ slave _. Of course his education has holes._

“They’re insults,” she said, then sought a new way to say what she’d meant. “Many planets don’t think art has value. We do, but putting the word ‘water’ in front of something is to imply something bad or negative about it.”

“Oh.” The sharp glance he gave outward, checking for eavesdroppers, himself, said he’d caught on.

“How about we find you a data reader after we finish eating? Then you can look up words.”

“Okay.” He frowned thoughtfully as he cleaned his plate, then looked up at her. ”What _is_ miming?”

* * *

Something didn’t feel right about Queen Amidala. She didn’t think it was Dark, but…even after witnessing the queen meditate, Jedi Padawan Aayla Secura still felt that something wasn’t right about it, but she couldn’t pinpoint what was _wrong_ with it, either.

Maybe it was just different. Some planets had their own native Force traditions, and those could be _extremely_ odd, by Jedi reckoning. Her grandmaster, Tholme, could make himself seem dead, even in the Force, which he’d learned on Anzat. Master Kuro could somehow walk through solid matter (or at least look as if she did—Aayla suspected it was a combination of Force Camoflauge and Force Illusion, maybe even with Force Teleportation, which would explain why nobody else could learn it and why Master Kuro said it was easier to perform in shadows).

But none of that helped her figure out what was striking her as odd about Queen Amidala, or even why she kept having flashes of the mission to Felucia, early in her apprenticeship, that had ended up illustrating some of how she and her Master both differed from a lot of Jedi.

The queen stopped her meditation too soon, in Aayla’s opinion, but that was because the blond handmaiden who’d found the probable Sith artifact rushed in with a data reader, flushed and stammering about some research she’d been asked to provide.

Queen Amidala waved for Aayla to leave. She looked pointedly at the holocron, wondering if the woman would catch the cue.

The queen’s glance her way was annoyed, but the annoyance at Aayla seemed to fade into annoyance at herself or maybe the situation. She swiftly retrieved a small box from her bedroom and scooped up the holocron as she passed it on her way to sitting back down. She set the box on the floor beide her, then dumped in the holocron and shut the box.

The Darkness roiling the Force abruptly vanished, restrained to a small murmur that Aayla probably would’ve overlooked if she hadn’t already known what she was sensing.

“If you’ll excuse me, General, I need to consult with Eirtaé.”

Aayla knew better than to argue with delusions, and that Force-shielded box meant she or Master Quinlan would notice if the holocron were brought out to be activated. She stood and gave a slight bow. “As you wish, my lady.”

Queen Amidala flinched.

Had she missed some detail of Human etiquette again? Aayla would have to check with Obi-Wan. She made a mental note to not use that turn of phrase again until she double-checked her understanding of it.

She stepped out of the queen’s suite, noticed the guards already stationed outside the room, and decided her master’s orders had been fulfilled and it was time to return to him.

Aayla followed her sense of her master back to the throne room. She found him on the floor, slouched in a way that he rarely did in the middle of a room unless he was recovering from a reading, and Obi-Wan was crouched beside him. “Master?”

“Hey, Padawan,” Master Quinlan said easily, and his pitch was a signal that he actually _was_ okay (and that twitch of his foot meant all recording devices in the room had been deactivated). “Don’t try to read the throne.”

Her fingers itched to try it.

He gave her one of his rare _looks_ that meant he was serious and might even hogtie her with Force-suppression cuffs if he caught her trying to disobey. She bit her lip and curled her hands into fists against the urge to test it—to find out if it really was _that_ serious, or if she would just regret learning what had affected him so badly.

Her Master only made orders like that when it was Important, otherwise letting her make her own decisions and then helping her through the consequences. She _knew_ that.

That didn’t stop her from wanting to understand what he didn’t want her to experience.

“So what’d you think of the queen?” he asked, in a blatant attempt to misdirect her from his current state.

Aayla decided to let him. “She had a Force-shielded box to put the holocron in.”

Master Quinlan and Obi-Wan exchanged a glance she couldn’t read.

“Oh?” her master asked mildly.

She summarized the sequence of events—how the queen hadn’t even retrieved the box until after her handmaiden interrupted her meditation. “Something was weird about her meditation, though. It didn’t feel Dark or anything like that, but… It just felt weird.”

Her frustration at being unable to explain herself properly came through her voice. Master Quinlan raised an eyebrow at her, for the blatant tell. She flushed.

“Something _is_ odd about how she meditates,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “It’s clumsy, like an Initiate or Junior Padawan who hasn’t practiced it much—but she clearly knows how to center herself and what imagery suits her, and she understands what meditation is meant to accomplish with a depth that reminds me more of a Senior Padawan or maybe even a Knight.”

“Advanced understanding of meditation but elementary experience with it?” Master Quinlan asked.

Relief and excitement welled in Aayla at the explanation. “So the Naboo learn the abstract about themselves _before_ they practice trying to reach their centers?”

That was the reverse of Jedi, who used meditation as a tool to develop self-awareness. Well, the ones who actually bothered to pursue that, anyway. Aayla sometimes eavesdropped on her master or grandmaster snickering over the blatant hypocrisy some Jedi unwittingly engaged in, in that regard.

Her master and Obi-Wan exchanged another glance that admitted there was something they weren’t telling her. She tried to stomp out her irritation before it could take root.

“Not exactly,” Master Quinlan said. “Although…maybe.”

 _Probably not,_ his tone of voice said, but in the way that meant he wasn’t going to explain.

Aayla would rather be told what was going on, no matter how dangerous, and her Master _knew_ that.

“How old does the queen feel to you?” Obi-Wan asked.

She blinked, startled by the question. “She’s fourteen. It’s public record.”

Her Master calmly leaned back on the floor, a tacit admission that he trusted the two of them to protect him from any hostile that might suddenly barrel through the door. (Not that he _expected_ that to happen, but neither she nor Master Quinlan would’ve survived long as Shadows if they didn’t think about things like that.)

“I didn’t ask how old she _is_ ,” Obi-Wan reminded her. “I asked how old she _feels_.”

Aayla’s lekku twitched before she could stop them from voicing her confusion. “Um,” she said awkwardly, disconcerted by the answer to his question.

The strained smile he gave her said that he noticed—both the answer and how utterly _impossible_ it was.

Master Quinlan sat back up. “Okay, so we have someone who the Force says is a lot older than her body. Potential causes?”

He stretched as he got to his feet, and Obi-Wan stood with him, watching to make sure he stayed steady.

She wracked her brains, trying to think of any possible option that answered her Master’s question. He wouldn’t want her to ignore things that were supposed to be no more than myths. Myth was a good way to hide things too dangerous to be believed real, and Jedi Shadows sometimes had to deal with such things.

“Possession?” she suggested tentatively. “But there doesn’t seem to be anyone else there. So…maybe an older, um, person took over?”

Neither Obi-Wan nor Master Quinlan laughed, which she suspected was part of why they got along so well. Neither treated others’ opinions lightly, nor were they inclined to scoff at potential scenarios. (Unless, of course, the situation and audience warranted such scoffing, but that was a bit different and more Master Quinlan’s thing. Obi-Wan was more likely to mock someone discreetly, by taking advantage of courtesy and politeness and playing adorably oblivious. Neither saw that mockery as something to do lightly.)

“How would we test that?” Master Quinlan asked her, his nonchalance indicating that he already had a plan in mind but was using the situation to let her practice her own problem-solving skills.

Aayla reminded herself that her Master’s willingness to let her fall on her face was a _good_ thing—that most masters would’ve just refused to let her have a pet at all, not let her name the bunkit or encouraged her when T’da died. _‘Death is part of life, and life is part of the Force. Let’s mourn her together, shall we?’_

She wasn’t sure what was making her think of that. Naboo wasn’t really anything like the jungle of Felucia.

Maybe it was all the water, reminding her of the Room of the Thousand Fountains and how it soothed the soul. Maybe it was the architecture and obvious appreciation for life in various forms, mirroring the Jedi Temple and its various gardens. Maybe it was that this mission was already looking to be a brief vacation, a break in the middle of an intense and difficult one.

Those were all possible reasons for why her mind was taking advantage of the opportunity to relax, but not reason for her to be remembering Felucia and T’da.

“Padawan?” her Master prodded.

She flushed in embarrassment at her distraction—something that could get them killed, on a lot of missions. “I don’t know. Talk to her family, maybe? People who have known her through childhood? See if there’s a point when things changed, if maybe there’s…someone else in charge?”

Dear Force, she hoped that she’d understood her Master’s cues correctly, that nobody was recording this conversation. It was so ridiculous as to be embarrassing.

Master Quinlan sometimes brought things up as thought experiments. Maybe…

She met his gaze with eyes so wide and over-the-top with pleading that it was a query. _This is one of your tricks, Master, right? Please?_

He gave her the slight sardonic half-smile that was his form of _Sorry; not kidding._

“ _E chu ta_!” she swore, adding more with her lekku and taking advantage of the fact that her Master didn’t care if she cursed for an hour as long as she could bite her tongue when the audience warranted it.

Not that she did it for an hour, but she was pretty sure a few minutes had passed before she wound down, and Obi-Wan was biting back a sad smile that reminded her Master Qui-Gon was _dead_ , not just elsewhere at the moment, and she felt bad for forgetting that.

Before she could apologize, though, Master Quinlan gave her a quick hug. “Now, _if_ the Naboo had legends about that sort of thing, Obi-Wan and I _might_ have had to promise not to tell the Council, in order to find out.”

If her Master and Obi-Wan couldn’t tell the Council, that meant…

Her face went even hotter at the prospect of reporting—reporting _that_. “Master! I can’t!”

“Okay,” he said easily—something that she couldn’t imagine even her grandmaster doing. “So what _are_ we going to tell the Council? We need some reason to stick around and help the new Knight, here, figure this shit out.”

Master Quinlan was pretty good at startling Obi-Wan, and now was no exception.

“I… What do you mean, here?”

Her Master shook his head and turned his _I’m kriffing serious_ expression on his friend. “You are the first Jedi to kill a Sith in a millennium. You do _not_ want to be around when everyone’s coming to terms with that shit.

“You need time to grieve, and that kid—what’s his name, Skywalker? didn’t he just win the Boonta Eve Classic?—needs some time to adjust. Better for you two to do that here, taking advantage of being planetary heroes, than to hop back to Coruscant and dealing with the hero worship and jealous ten-year-olds. You want that to be the kid’s introduction to life as a free person? Can he even read Basic? That’s not something the slaveborn usually get opportunity to learn.”

Obi-Wan stared blankly at Master Quinlan in blatant admission that he either didn’t know or hadn’t thought about that. “But…my mission is over, Quin. I _have_ to go back to Coruscant.”

Aayla’s lekku revealed the sentiment that made her struggle not to roll her eyes, even while her Master’s expression stayed smooth and his aura revealed just a hint of sadness.

“No,” he said, “you don’t ‘have’ to. You can file for a leave of absence—you have a right to bereavement leave, or personal leave, or even professional leave explicitly to avoid inflaming the gossip about the Sith you’ve killed.

“You can look into the situation here and come up with something that warrants further investigation—really wouldn’t be hard, between what the Trade Federation got away with, the Sith they had with them, the possibly possessed Force-sensitive queen who seems pretty damn close to having a mental breakdown… All sorts of reasons you could use.”

Master Quinlan shrugged. “If you wanted, you could even make it all about the kid. Say you want to fill in some gaps in his education so he can enter classes with his agemates, rather than having to learn push-feather with the two-year-olds.”

He gripped Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and Aayla hugged from the other side.

“If you don’t want to stay in the palace where Qui-Gon died, I understand, but you’re the main face the queen knows and trusts, right now.” Master Quinlan paused, with an awkward glance down at Aayla that said they were both remembering Queen Amidala’s elation at seeing her.

“Main face they know about, so far,” he amended. “You’re going to be a top choice for getting assigned to deal with her, and the sooner you deal with the grief and shit, the easier it will be. Take a vacation somewhere else on the planet, if you have to, but don’t run.”

Most Jedi in Obi-Wan’s position would’ve probably snapped that Master Quinlan didn’t know what he spoke of—after all, _he_ hadn’t ever lost a Master—but Obi-Wan knew better.

“With what funds?” he asked, instead. “You aren’t seriously suggesting I use the money provided by Former Chancellor Valorum for the peace settlement in order to take a _vacation_.”

Aayla kept her expression carefully neutral, making sure to control even her lekku.

Her master didn’t so much as bat an eyelid, though he certainly _had_ been open to that possibility. “You’re a kriffing _hero_ right now, Kenobi. I’m sure the queen could find somebody with a vacation cottage or something who would be willing to put you up for a week or five. Isn’t she some kind of nobility?”

Aayla sighed in frustration, and shook her head at Master Quinlan’s sharp look. Someday, she would be able to handle these kinds of conversations like he did, adjusting possibilities to what people needed to hear. He was teaching her, and she could see it when he did it. She’d eventually be able to do it, herself.

She just wished she was already there.

* * *

Eirtaé’s research was better than Padmé had expected, considering the time constraints. It at least gave her a primer on what missions were public record and had happened already, which would hopefully help her keep from mentioning something classified or that hadn’t occurred yet.

Eirtaé’s research also reminded her of Captain Panaka’s reaction, when she’d asked for what he’d gathered—or rather, the unapologetic excuses he’d made, essentially admitting he hadn’t even tried to do any of it because she had far more important things to focus on.

She’d ordered him to go liberate Camp Four himself, just to make sure he wouldn’t do anything that drove her to lose her temper and fire him before she calmed down. She couldn’t afford to fire him, not without investigating how he might factor into Palpatine’s plans—but how had she put up with him for eight years?

 _I didn’t know any better,_ she admitted to herself. _And I didn’t put him in situations where he displayed this so blatantly._

And Captain Typho had been Panaka’s…cousin? Nephew? She couldn’t remember, and she wasn’t looking forward to potentially finding out that he was more of the same that she’d put up with because by that point, she’d been _used_ to it.

She spotted a note that Master Billaba’s parents had been murdered by slavers, that Master Windu had rescued her from the slave ship when she was a baby—so Windu had both found and trained Billaba. Why had they allowed that but not Master Koon to train Ahsoka?

Padmé did the math, realized Master Koon hadn’t yet Found Ahsoka, and pondered how she could ask about that scenario. She could cite a vision, she supposed, but she didn’t want to cheapen her presumed dreams by over-reliance on them.

The girl who called uberfish had good intentions for why she kept summoning her village—they were ignoring the beauty around them, which she was _trying_ to get them to see—but the way she’d played with their fear meant that they hadn’t heeded her when she truly needed to give warning.

Padmé’s eyes burned with fatigue, and she rubbed them. The pain moved from her eyeballs to her temples, and she grimaced.

“Your Highness?” Eirtaé asked.

She’d forgotten the handmaiden was there. “I have a headache. I think I’ll take a nap.”

“It has been a long day, Your Highness. No one would resent you sleeping until morning.”

The use of ‘resent’ caught Padmé’s ear, and she managed to dredge up the reason from memories over a decade old for her, now, though she’d not yet witnessed the situations that had made her realize both why Eirtaé usually avoided the word and who brought it to her mind.

“Your father is here?” she asked.

Eirtaé flinched.

Padmé frowned and added ‘Look for recordings’ to her already far too long to-do list. She was going to have to start purging something, soon, at least for the time being.

She started for her bedroom and rememberd she still had the data reader with Eirtaé’s research.

“Here.” She handed it back to the handmaiden. “If you could go through the list and make a list of their missions, in a basic timeline for each councillor? That’ll help.”

It wasn’t really what she wanted, but it was all she had time for, right now. The parade and Qui-Gon’s funeral would be…The day after tomorrow? Was that right?

She pressed her hands to her eyeballs. Yes, because Boss Nass would call her in an hour, they’d discuss what cleanup and clearing of the camps would be needed, Boss Nass would call upon Gungans all over Naboo to help. Even one of the visiting Councilors would help with the cleanup efforts, though Padmé couldn’t remember which one for the life of her and wasn’t sure she’d ever bothered to find out. She’d been so busy…

Padmé would have a call coming in an hour. If she wanted to have a chance to beat this headache before she had to deal with the Gungan, she had to address it _now_.

“Thank you,” she said in dismissal to Eirtaé, then she went to her bedside, set her timer for forty minutes, and plopped facefirst on the bed.

Anakin had laughed at her ‘bantha flop’, when he’d seen it after Geonosis. She’d never understood _why_ he called it that, but… Had that truly been the last time she’d heard him laugh freely?

Tears burned her eyes, and she hugged her pillow. _Ten years_ , she told herself. _You’re over a third of the way there._

The prospect of being one-third of the way to assuaging her loneliness didn’t stop her from feeling it now, or from the niggling suspicion that maybe Anakin would be better off without her altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn’t a question of "if" slavery exists in your country, but where. Wish I were kidding or exaggerating.
> 
> Slavery is a huge problem, even in the United States today. It takes many forms, and it’s not just sex slavery.
> 
> U.S. Department of State’s explanations of modern-day slavery: http://www.state.gov/j/tip/what/  
> An anecdote from someone who was a modern-day slave: http://money.cnn.com/2013/11/21/news/economy/human-trafficking-slave/
> 
> Nobody’s sure of the actual numbers, and part of the problem is that people assume it’s not possible or it can’t be happening. More, people assume things like because someone is nice _to them_ , that person must necessarily be nice to _everyone_.
> 
> Yeah…that assumption is actually how con artists and other types of manipulators can get away with a lot with their shit.
> 
> Anakin’s situation was about as good as it could have been, on Tatooine, since he was valuable to his master and Watto was greedy, not sadistic. Watto wasn’t heartless, either—he kept Anakin and his mother together even before he was given monetary reason to do so; he didn’t keep Anakin from having scraps to build with (and allowed him time off and to show what emotion he wanted—both things that slaves can’t take for granted and that abused children often aren’t permitted, with reason).
> 
> Anakin’s “Yeah, pity if you’d have to pay for me” to Sebulba illustrates an advantage he had in Tatooine’s institutionalized slavery—as property, he had protection. A free Human child in his situation probably would have been severely hurt or killed by Sebulba (or another pissed-off sentient), since there would be no financial cost attached.
> 
> As Watto’s slave, Anakin had a few main risks in life. The person responsible for him could mistreat him, endanger him (via having him podrace, gambling him, selling him, etc.), or piss off someone who would lash out at those under them.
> 
> This summary of risks (mistreatment, endangerment, or threat) is true of _any_ child, slave or free. A sadly high number of children are taught that that they are only allowed to say, feel, do, and think only what fits the caregiver’s goals. This attitude doesn’t vanish when a child becomes an adult.
> 
> Most people only do what they think they can get away with. If you are someone that they know has the ability to interfere or stop them, then even the cruelest person will generally be among the most charming or generous people you know, to your face. That’s just self-defense, on their part.
> 
> Both institutionalized slavery and child abuse stem from similar attitudes of entitlement and denial of another person’s sovereignty, due to some reason that is either a social construct (when the authority is legal) or personal bullshit (when the authority is illegal).
> 
> As minor children are both legally and socially bound to their parents’ wishes, that makes them easy and common targets of people who like or want to control others.
> 
> Kids might be legally able to escape, but they’re less likely to be physically able to. Slaves are less likely to have their health sabotaged, but more likely to have nowhere to legally go. Both are likely to have fiscal limitations, as are abused spouses or significant others.
> 
> All victims of such controlling persons are likely to both be kept ignorant of services that can help them and to have linguistic barriers interfering with getting help. Slaves are often moved somewhere that they don’t speak the language. Controllers have their own thought patterns and word definitions that differ from normal, which they press on their victims.
> 
> The result means you can talk to a victim and have a perfectly reasonable (though possibly a bit odd) conversation, and what you both mean will differ from what is understood.
> 
> Eirtaé’s canon knack for spotting treachery means that giving her a background as an abuse victim is consistent with canon—and the fact that she’s sufficiently aware at her age pretty much requires an overt physical component. The reasons I’ve come up with for why very-young new-to-employ Yané is on the primary shift and why Sabé was such a talented mimic are also providing openings to demonstrate other scenarios and effects.
> 
> This story or series is probably going to end up illustrating some examples of how abuse warps communication and more abuse than Eirtaé’s situation. If you have not experienced these things, my examples may seem so extreme as to be unrealistic.
> 
> They won’t be.
> 
> And now, dear readers, you have a peek into why I usually don’t make in-depth author notes, because this is the **highly** abridged version of my original note.  >_>


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. We have another epic author's note after the chapter today, so this might end up a regular or semi-regular thing. This week, I'll be talking about the Jedi endangerment of children, as a foundation that I have to address before I can talk about the Naboo endangerment of children or even Quinlan and Aayla.
> 
> Lord willing, next week will be cover cleanup, with the parade itself coming the week after. It's just…if I didn't show all this stuff, what's to come would get too freaking confusing to understand the others' motivations. [buffs fingernails]
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoy it. :-)
> 
> If you want to find more of my work, you can look up my username on Patreon, Wattpad, or Twitter.

 

Anakin couldn’t help his surprise when Sabé did find him a data reader immediately after they finished eating, and she even found some recordings of mimes for him to watch.

It wasn’t that he expected her to forget, before she took him back to the queen’s rooms and left him in the sitting area while she went to another room with Eirtaé for a quiet chat. He just…

He thought about it, between the recordings that confused him even more. He finally figured out that he was used to people having to fill promises in stolen moments around what their masters wanted, if they even remembered.

He played another recording, hoping that answering that mystery meant he’d focus better and understand the mime thing. Nope.

The handmaidens returned to the room. Eirtaé outright glided over to the room’s terminal and started doing something.

Sabé approached him and smiled. “Need anything? Is the reader helping?”

“Um,” he said, startled by the question and not wanting to admit he still didn’t understand something that had been important to her. “This is good. Thanks.”

Eirtaé’s movements hiccupped, and they were slower upon resuming after the pause. Anakin eyed her, but she didn’t signal Sabé that that he’d lied.

“I’m going to go check on Yané and Saché, and make sure rooms are prepared for you and the Jedi.”

Obi-Wan was okay, then, even though—

Anakin froze, realizing he wasn’t sensing Master Qui-Gon. When had _that_ happened? How had he not felt it?

He hadn’t really wanted to be Master Qui-Gon’s padawan, but that didn’t mean he wanted the man to _die_. Tears pricked his eyes.

Sabé paused. “Is something wrong?”

“Master Qui-Gon’s dead, isn’t he?”

She froze, then got that weird form of anger he’d felt in her before. “I’m sorry, Anakin. I didn’t realize nobody told you. Yes, the Sith killed him.”

She frowned, confusion broiling. “Though…come to think of it…” She turned to her fellow handmaiden. “When _did_ we find that out? I can’t remember anyone reporting it, just her knowing already.”

“Her Highness _does_ have Jedi powers.”

“But to know Master Qui-Gon died?”

Eirtaé gave a slight shrug with one shoulder.

“I felt it,” Anakin said, knowing he had, but _when_? He couldn’t remember.

 _You didn’t notice it consciously,_ said a female voice he didn’t know. _It was but a murmur beside the Sith’s death, and I shielded you from that. You didn’t need the hurt._

Both handmaidens looked at him a bit sharply, though Sabé felt like Eirtaé had after finding out Qui-Gon had let him podrace, and Eirtaé felt…alarmed?

“Oh,” Sabé said. “I’m sorry.”

She meant it, too. Anakin could feel it. He blinked back tears.

Eirtaé stepped around Sabé to give Anakin a hug, and she used the motion to put her face towards Anakin’s shoulder, hiding her expression from the other handmaiden.

Sabé cleared her throat. “Another Jedi and his Padawan have arrived. That’s who… I’ll arrange you four rooms.”

“Make sure to leave more open,” Eirtaé said, lifting her head. “More Jedi will be coming for the funeral.”

The handmaidens exchanged a look—Sabé, puzzled and curious, Eirtaé, certain but guarded.

Realization flashed in Sabé’s eyes, and she glanced at Anakin. She opened her mouth to ask…then closed it with a shake of her head. “I’ll go do that, then.”

“Thank you,” Eirtaé said, acknowledging that the other handmaiden was shelving her curiosity or at least not announcing that Eirtaé was hiding something.

Sabé hesitated, then left.

Eirtaé flopped on the couch beside him, letting out a long breath.

Anakin tried to figure out… “You don’t want her knowing you’re Force-sensitive?”

“No, I— I don’t know.” She gave a wary glance around that didn’t seem as if it was looking for another handmaiden.

“You heard it, too?”

Eirtaé crumpled with relief and blinked back a few tears of her own. “Oh, good. I thought that maybe—“

She composed herself, expression wan. “I have been warned,” she said carefully, “that I need to learn to meditate and shield.”

_That shouldn’t be too hard for you._

“I’m sorry,” Eirtaé politely asked the room, apparently having seen no more source for the voice than Anakin had. “But who are you?”

Anakin’s neck prickled, and there was an emptiness in the room that made clear something _had_ been there.

Eirtaé looked queasy, and she swallowed. “The queen did say she’d encountered a Force ghost.”

A…what? Anakin stared at her. _That_ hadn’t been in the list of Force abilities that Obi-Wan had given him.

His fingers tightened on the data reader, and he remembered what Sabé had told him, that she’d been a water mime but told everyone she’d been a gymnast. He stared at the reader, not wanting to tell the secret but wanting to _understand_.

“Um, Eirtaé?”

 _Please ask about something else_ , he outright heard her think—and he felt her sense that.

They blinked at each other, startled.

“Um,” Anakin said, mentally flailing for something else to talk about. He looked at his data reader and the really confusing recordings. “Sabé showed me some examples of miming, and I still don’t get it.”

Her relief had a tenor that felt weirdly familiar, and she latched on to the opportunity to change the topic. “It conveys story without words.”

That didn’t really help. “What’s the _point_?”

Eirtaé thought for a few seconds, then shrugged and held out a hand for the data reader. “Let me see what she showed you, and maybe we can figure out a way to translate it for your culture.“

* * *

 

Rabé approached the throne room, forms in hand, hoping Knight Kenobi hadn’t left since she’d looked up his comlink. Gods willing, he’d testify to whatever the Lord of House Frizmar did, this time, but even if he didn’t, at least Jedi Vos would.

But Jedi Vos didn’t have a comlink in the system, so she’d have to find him first. _One step at a time._

Knight Kenobi probably knew where he was, anyway.

She sped up her steps, eager to get the paperwork taken care of, so she could return to the queen. The sooner their duties were completed, the sooner she’d learn how Jedi Vos restrained Lord Frizmar. The thought made her smile.

Rabé entered the room to find Knight Kenobi, Jedi Vos, and a Rutian Twi’lek that was doubtless Jedi Vos’s Padawan, due to the lightsaber hilt at her hip.

“Master Jedi,” she said with relief.

“Handmaiden Lassair,” Jedi Vos said politely, ignoring the odd glance Knight Kenobi and the Twi’lek gave him. He gave a slight nod towards the latter. “Padawan Secura.”

Rabé responded the introduction with a slight bow, as she’d seen Jedi give in general, and she handed her flimsiplasts to Jedi Vos.

He glanced over them enough to confirm it was two copies of the form she’d promised to bring him, then passed one to Kenobi. “Seems that Handmaiden Frizmar’s father got himself tossed out some door that has political ramifications, but witnesses have to give testimony for what, precisely he did to get put there. Do your homework, then _go to bed_. If you are not showering, meditating, or sleeping in the next hour, I will drag your ass there, myself.”

Knight Kenobi winced, so Rabé assumed there was an unspoken ‘and sit on you’ or Jedi equivalent.

“I’ve heard Naboo legends can be fascinating,” Jedi Vos continued to her. “Are there any particular authors or collections you’d recommend?”

“Quinlan!” Knight Kenobi said sharply, though she had no idea why.

Padawan Secura studied her, eyes narrowed. Rabé didn’t understand that, either.

Jedi Vos shrugged. “If I’m gonna be babysitting your ass, I might as well read something interesting while I do it.”

He gave Rabé a polite smile, and she tentatively returned it. Knight Kenobi looked pained, and Padawan Secura’s lips and lekku twitched.

“So…Naboo legends,” Jedi Vos said. “What author do you recommend?”

Whatever she was missing, surely chatting with her fellow handmaidens would fill things in. “Omira is my favorite, but they use a rare tri-gendered variant of Early Modern Basic.”

The Kiffar’s smile didn’t falter, so either he could read the language or he was a black hole at sabbac. Possibly both, since she was pretty sure he was at least the latter. Her uncle treated his wife and children horribly, but he’d also liked her until she’d made clear she wasn’t going to follow his footsteps as a professional sabbac player.

“Omira,” Jedi Vos repeated. “Thank you. My Padawan left the queen in…her rooms, was it?”

Padawan Secura nodded, seeming to be fighting with an urge to laugh. “Yes.”

Rabé considered Padawan Secura and the reason her aunt had never divorced her uncle (which was, to be honest, one of the reasons Rabé had sought this job; supporting Amidala was wonderful for Naboo, but the paycheck was fantastic for her family). “Fancy a chance to play sabbac?”

The quick spreading and twitching of the Twi’lek’s muscles indicated excitement, if Rabé was reading them right. She couldn’t read Jedi Vos’s expression.

Jedi Vos was the type of man that would take advantage of her uncle, all while her uncle believed him to be his very best friend. The prospect warmed her insides.

Knight Kenobi’s brow furrowed, strengthening the stress of grief revealed in his eyes. She assumed that feeling was why Jedi Vos had threatened him.

“I haven’t yet had a chance to teach any other handmaidens,” she said, looking straight at Knight Kenobi. “I imagine nobody will be able to sleep for a while yet, tonight, so it seems a good opportunity to do so.”

One that could conveniently force Jedi Vos to make an exception to the ultimatum he’d given Kenobi, if the new Knight truly wanted to fight it.

“Oh, I _like_ you,” Padawan Secura said with blatant delight.

“That’s an invite for all of you. It’ll be easier to teach the others if I have help.”

Padawan Secura tilted her head and gave Jedi Vos a sly glance, lekku twitching. “The queen’s sitting room is plenty big for all of us,” she said, too innocently.

Jedi Vos just gave her a frank stare.

Knight Kenobi rubbed his face, probably to hide some expression—she got the distinct impression of embarrassment, for some reason.

“Is that a no?” she asked, disappointed. They’d probably be good at sabbac, enough to even teach her some new tricks.

“Masters Jedi!” Sabé cut in from the hall, sounding a bit out of breath. “I’m terribly sorry for the delay, but your rooms have been prepared. If you’ll come this way, please?”

As they faced her, she looked at Rabé. “Her Highness is resting.”

Rabé smoothened her dress. “I’ll see to her.” _And fetch my deck on the way._

The Jedi rooms would doubtless be near the queen, for an extra layer of security. Whether they came or not…she could at least _try_ to teach the other handmaidens the game.

* * *

Quinlan gave his Padawan a mental swat. _Do not bait the kid,_ he thought clearly, though Aayla would only get his mood and not the words.

Aayla was ignoring his displeasure with aplomb, a downside of her being in the shadow game.

The handmaiden who’d neglected to introduce herself led them to the rooms that had been prepared for them. Handmaiden Lassair came in the same direction but thankfully broke away before they reached the hall.

The other handmaiden indicated four rooms that were next to each other. “One for each of you, including Anakin.”

“Thank you,” Quinlan said, before Aayla could say she’d probably share his and thereby fuel the gossip about him—because, hey, what else would a rogue do with a beautiful Twi’lek who was Coruscant legal?

The handmaiden continued down the hall—towards the queen, he assumed. Once they were alone, he grabbed his Padawan by the shoulder and hauled her into one room.

Obi-Wan followed, of course. “Quinlan—“

“Hey, nice digs,” he said appreciatively, signalling Aayla to scan for bugs.

She rolled her eyes, but she adjusted her stance and dropped into a light Force trance to check.

Quinlan did a quick scan of his own and waved to Obi-Wan. “Want company?”

His friend’s frown morphed into exhaustion. “Until the sabbac game?”

The ever-so-slight suspicion in his voice illustrated what Quinlan hated about his reputation. It had started in the creche, with others accusing him of breaking rules in order to make others doubt his testimony, regardless what he learned from his psychometry. Others had followed suit, and…

So many would believe him a heartbreaker regardless what he did that it was most useful to just play along. His flagrant attitude meant most people didn’t really pay much attention to him, since they thought they had him pegged, and that made his job all the easier.

But kriff, it could be lonely. Especially when even friends who knew better assumed him that much of an asshole.

Obi-Wan let out a breath. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Aayla spun towards the door with the little bounce that said the room was clear, and she left without a word. Maybe to pick a room, maybe to check on the queen, maybe just to call Coruscant and chat with a friend. If she needed him, she’d call him.

Quinlan considered Obi-Wan. Exhaustion was outright wafting from him, courtesy of the fight with the Sith, but… He’d fought with a _Sith_ , and his Master had died in it. Nightmares would be likely.

“Do _you_ want to join in on the sabbac?” he asked.

His friend rubbed his face. “I think that might be a good idea. It’s a good way to practice bluffing, and the handmaidens…are going to need that.”

Regardless how the queen was possessed, yeah. And focusing on them might help him reach strong enough exhaustion in order to be able to sleep.

“Okay,” Quinlan agreed. “Need help with the shower?”

Obi-Wan scowled, set the data reader the queen had given him on the small table, and headed for the ’fresher.

So Qui-Gon’s death hadn’t fueled his friend’s tendency towards self-recrimination. A bit odd that it hadn’t, but at least Quinlan wouldn’t have to keep a suicide watch.

He picked up the data reader and looked up the author that had been recommended by Handmaiden Lassair. If he was going to bet on a legend having an element of truth in it, it was a good idea to have a clue about what he was betting on. He found a dictionary, too, in case he had to double-check something.

While he was at it, he sent Aayla a message to track down some security recordings—of the fight with the Sith, of course, and preferably samples of the Naboo in combat. If the queen _was_ possessed by a future version of herself or by some other entity, her battle responses might differ from others, holdovers from training or experience the others didn’t have.

He did some quick shopping for the paint he and Obi-Wan were going to need (if anyone bothered to trace the purchase, Master Billaba would find his use of the queen’s personal reader outright hilarious).

Then he transferred the legends to his own personal (and far more secure) reader. To refresh his memory, he glanced over the notes he’d been given on what had been observed of Padmé Naberrie’s behavior in the Temple. Bant had included a rant that expecting worse in the future was no reason to ignore an injury. That meant the queen had done that—and shit, that did not bode well for her ability to care for herself and could possibly bleed over into how she treated her subordinates.

Aayla sent an acknowledgement ping over his comm, hidden behind a message that she was looking forward to the coming game of sabbac. Getting chummy with the natives was excellent, especially since the Order was probably going to have to establish a long-term presence on Naboo.

Quinlan heard the water finally turn on in the ’fresher, indicating the start of a shower or bath. He sprawled on the sinfully comfortable couch and settled in to read some presumed mythology.

Heh, maybe the queen would just be a con artist wanting to make people _think_ she was a legend. Not that the scenario fit with what he’d seen upon touching the throne, but visions could be misleading. Even ones as detailed and lengthy as he’d witnessed could be missing a detail here, a scene there, that would dramatically change their meaning.

As he started with the introduction to the work, though, his gut said that Handmaiden Frizmar probably had the right of it.

* * *

Aayla found herself a bit amused by how _young_ the handmaidens were—and by the fact that, if they were a bit older, Obi-Wan might have ended up taking another sort of comfort with at least one of them.

Well, with one of them. Personality-wise, they were all eloquent and sneaky and handy in a fight. Eirtaé Frizmar was the only blonde, though.

(Not that Aayla could admit to being aware of anyone’s more salacious interests and maintain her reputation for being naïve and oblivious, which gave her access to persons and conversations her master and grandmaster couldn’t reach. It never ceased to amaze her how many people seriously _believed_ her that ignorant or prudish. Particularly since her grandmaster was well-known to be a sly bastard. But whatever.)

They were on their fifth round of sabbac and already out of the ‘tutorial’ stage, despite the new players. Side effect of Naboo’s meritocracy, probably—anyone who made it to this level of public service _had_ to be quick on the uptake.

The youngest handmaiden’s emotions were nearing the edge that would let her excuse herself, as she’d wanted to do all along. She’d introduced herself with too much of a mumble for Aayla to pick up her name.

Rabé was enjoying herself. She was smiling and giggling a little _too_ much, but she wasn’t intentionally flirting.

(Master Quinlan kept mentally swatting Aayla in response to her amused pokes with the Force.)

Eirtaé was appreciating the game and picking up some tricks in the Force that were sort-of cheats (but would help her as a bodyguard). She was also the only handmaiden who’d figured out that Rabé was attracted to _someone_ —but she wasn’t sure who, so she probably didn’t (yet?) experience attraction, herself. (Which took her out of the running as potential girlfriend for Obi-Wan. So sad. Not that he was truly _that_ prone to actually hooking up with anyone, but she was pretty sure he had more personal experience with that than her Master did.)

Obi-Wan and the boy from Tatooine were playing as a team, and the kid’s inexperience blended with Obi-Wan’s exhaustion to make them both lose badly, but a quiet enjoyment ran between them, even as they both rued how bad they were at the game.

Aayla wiggled to get another token out from under her and toss it in the pile—Rabé had too many boxes of practice chips for a casual player, but it was sure useful—and neatly dodged Sabé’s wandering hand. That handmaiden was too tired to notice she kept staring at Aayla’s lekku, so it wasn’t really a surprise that her hands and coordination were following.

Annoyance and resignation flickered in Master Quinlan, and she grinned at him. Close-in-age allowances meant that Sabé’s curiosity couldn’t really hurt Aayla, legally speaking, even if she encouraged it. Not that she was. (Not that she could even be sure Sabé was even interested in a way that would warrant concern about legalities. She was probably the first Twi’lek the girls had met.)

Rabé flushed as she decided what call to make, this round, which had ended up being her against the Kiffar Jedi.

Aayla really should cue her in, but the girl’s ignorance of her own attraction to Master Quinlan was far too entertaining to watch.

* * *

Padmé’s headache wasn’t gone before Boss Nass called, but thankfully it had settled. She had the lengthy but necessary conversation with him from the privacy of her bedroom. She just set her chair and viewscreen so a wall was behind her, to make it _look_ official.

She made sure to mention that she’d included the siesta in the schedule, so the Gungans who volunteered didn’t have to worry about that. Boss Nass’s surprise and pleasure would’ve gotten her drenched in spit, had the conversation been in person.

Padmé never had figured out if that was a Gungan custom or just something Boss Nass did to test who would assume him a blathering idiot.

By the time the call ended, her throat stung from thirst. She opened the door to her bedroom, thinking to fetch herself some water…and stared at the jumble in her sitting room, the furniture moved out against the walls. Yané was curled on the chair in the corner.

Sabé lay sprawled on her stomach and face on the floor, snoring lightly. On either side of her were Rabé and Master Secura— _Padawan!_ she reminded herself sternly—who were still playing with Eirtaé (between Rabé and Obi-Wan) and Master Vos (on the other side of his apprentice). Obi-Wan looked a hair’s breadth from falling asleep, and Anakin was sleeping between both Jedi men, blanketed by Obi-Wan’s cloak.

It was her primary handmaidens (barring Saché, who was in the hospital) and Jedi protectors, bonding over a game that Padmé was certain hadn’t happened, Before.

From what she remembered of the Jedi, she wasn’t surprised they played, but Rabé was handling the cards with the ease of much practice, despite her yawning.

She couldn’t help but stare.

“Your Highness?” Vos asked quietly, signaling for the others to stay put even as he put his cards facedown on the floor.

Rabé startled and flushed, fiddling with the cards and apparently embarrassed to be caught playing the smugglers’ game by her queen. Eirtaé was either too ambivalent or too tired to be bothered.

Vos’s soft voice and roguish appearance reminded her too much of the Anakin she’d married to be good for her adolescent body’s hormones. Her face went hot. “It’s fine. I can get myself some water.”

Vos unsurprisingly ignored her, getting to his feet with a smooth gracefulness that _also_ reminded her of the adult Anakin.

The heat spread from her face. _Oh, gods._

Secura giggled.

Padmé scowled before she could catch herself and resisted the urge to pointedly kick the Twi’lek in the leg that was pretty close to Padmé’s foot.

Vos returned swiftly and, thank Shiraya, did not comment on her overactive libido as he handed her the glass of water and returned to his place in the game. “Want in the next hand?”

Obi-Wan yawned widely. “Here, you can have my spot.”

Vos helped him struggle to his feet, then gently picked up Anakin, with a soft nudge in the Force to keep him from waking. “I’ll help them to their rooms and be right back. No peeking, Padawan.”

Secura pouted.

Padmé sipped her water, considering the game that remained and Rabé’s persisting discomfort. “I didn’t know you played,” she said to her handmaiden.

Rabé gave a self-conscious shrug, far more nervous about her presence than she’d been about the Jedi.

That wouldn’t do, not if they were going to end up friends. Padmé sighed and stepped over Aayla to reach the spot Obi-Wan had abandoned, beside Eirtaé. She picked up the cards and blinked at them. Since when was Obi-Wan _that_ bad at sabbac?

Secura giggled again, illuminating why Vos had taken care of things himself—his apprentice was well past ready for bed, herself.

Padmé considered _Padawan_ Secura’s blatant lack of restraint, compared to the Jedi Master she’d known. She surrendered all her cards to the dealer bot and murmured her trump: “Kit Fisto.”

Secura startled and stared at her with suddenly-wide eyes, her cheeks darkened with a blush.

Padmé smiled sweetly.

Secura’s eyes narrowed, but she tilted her head in acquiescence, even as annoyance and amusement both danced in her lekku and bubbled over into the Force.

Vos returned, Rabé dealt her new cards, and the game resumed as if Padmé had been there all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon makes clear that the Jedi Order is willing to endanger children. Toddlers play with low-powered lightsabers that can burn them. Youth as young as 10 go on active missions and even enter war zones—already with combat training, and with the support of an adult whose orders they’re to follow, but they still enter danger.
> 
> There are multiple factors involved in considering the “why”, but first is that Force-sensitivity is inherently dangerous.
> 
> The skills themselves can easily kill someone on accident. A Force-sensitive child can therefore be a risk to themselves and to those around them, and learning to control it will necessarily involve activating that risk.
> 
> Force-sensitive folks also are a distinct minority. How do folks usually treat a minority, particularly a minority with power? Whether individual or as a group, Force-sensitives are at risk of jealousy, prejudice, exploitation, experimentation, and more.
> 
> If the galaxy at large turns on them… Well, we know how that turned out, between Episode III and Episode IV.
> 
> These factors mean that danger is a fact of life for Jedi— _even for children_. Individual cases will have differing risks, but overall, **danger is unavoidable**. Ignoring that means that the child doesn’t learn how to handle the situations that will occur, which _actually endangers them_.
> 
> (Remember my point last week, that assuming bad things aren’t happening actually helps them happen? That holds true for far more than abuse.)
> 
> Going back to the topic of Force-sensitivity, the factors I’ve mentioned mean a Jedi will necessarily start with a definition of “acceptable risk” that includes potential—unlikely, but very much _possible_ —for serious harm or death.
> 
> Now, add that the expectations laid on the Jedi Order by the Old Republic are such that the Order must both keep positive political relations with certain parties, and maximize the number of years any particular person is active in the workforce. These are both reason for and cause of both the age rules and the stringent interpretations of the Code—they make all that far easier, on many levels.
> 
> Once you have such standards in place, some individuals will understand that the rules are actually rules _of thumb_ , but some will not, either due to legitimate misunderstanding or due to personal fear or preference. Seeing things as “rules” rather than “rules of thumb” is easier. As more time passes, more people will embrace that, which leads to even simpler and easier rules that are even more limited.
> 
> (As a simple real-life example, commas don’t mean “and”, nor do they indicate spots where you take a breath while speaking. They can be understood that way in some contexts as an oversimplified tool to help you spot where to put them, but that is not what they mean or do. It’s increasingly common for those helpful rules of thumb to be taught as actual rules.)
> 
> And so the rules made for immediate expedience have the long-term effects of becoming more stringent and limiting as time goes on, while those in the middle of the process can’t really see it happening, because the reasons to make the rules stricter _sound_ oh-so-reasonable and are even legitimate…for some contexts. (Folks who do see—or who are exceptions that disprove the rules—are easily dismissed/ignored/lynched as heretics, traitors, special cases, or even just crazy.)
> 
> This stringency factors into the single teacher/student stuff, which further exacerbates the Order’s problem of having too few in the workforce for their responsibilities, which means they have no choice but to include youth in active missions, which means it’s a necessity and therefore the “will of the Force”.
> 
> Jedi youth _will_ end up in dangerous situations (if missions go south), which means they have to be taught to handle it. Once they have the training and can handle situations, why _not_ send them? It’s dangerous, sure, but they’re dealing with it anyway. It’s normal, for the Order.
> 
> “What is a child?” _is_ a somewhat arbitrary question without a universal answer. Look at our world, at the variations in age of majority, age of consent, marriageable age, etc.—and history shows even wider variance.
> 
> The Jedi duties of having to work with a variety of cultures would make them susceptible to lacking a solid definition for that, which could factor in to why they clung so much to what age rules they _did_ have, as a point of similarity between them and those outside the Order, even though they’d mean very different things by it.
> 
> (I’ll address the Naboo child endangerment—like, oh, fourteen-year-old decoys for whom “die in someone else’s place” is _part of the job description_ —another day.)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinlan wasn’t unused to dealing with others’ attraction, but that was in the underworld, where flirting was part of the natural language. Now he was dealing with nobility and their retinues, and he had no idea what he should do about Handmaiden Lassair.
> 
> Some intelligence agents in his position would intentionally break the kid’s heart, since that would protect her in the future.
> 
>  
> 
> _Not going there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter! Yay! ^_^
> 
> I’ve appropriated the premise that Aayla is allergic to Jedi robes from the Re-Entry series by flamethrower. The allergy isn’t actually necessary to my interpretation of Aayla, but it makes her mask a bit smoother/easier/simpler to manage.
> 
> (Judgmental folks will be inclined to blame her Master for her wardrobe, anyway, and an allergy gives her a reason to not wear “normal” robes that doesn’t conflict with the presupposition that her attire is her Master’s fault.)

Padmé had pulled many late nights in her years in politics, so she hadn’t thought much of playing sabbac until three hours before dawn, when Master Vos rather literally tossed her into her bedroom and shut the door between them. (“If we stay up any later, Your Highness, my Padawan is gonna need caff to help with the cleanup, and you do not want to see her on stimulants.”)

What she’d forgotten, until she awoke at dawn to start donning the paint and other accoutrements of her position, was that she’d developed that ability with _practice_. Her current body didn’t have the proclivity for catnaps that she’d trained into her original.

She’d also forgotten that she was physically an adolescent, which made sleep deprivation affect her a bit more sharply than it had as an adult.

Anakin was nearby, and Padmé kept glimpsing the visiting adult Jedi in her peripheral and mistaking them for her husband before she remembered when she was. Thankfully, Obi-Wan was too distracted to notice, and Master Vos politely (and pointedly, she thought) ignored it.

Between steps of getting ready for the day in the midnight blue of mourning, she found some fresh Jedi-ish attire for them. Naboo fabric was light and silky, rather conflicting with the humility that the Order’s garb was intended to convey, but they accepted the offer.

As her husband had been Knighted and customized his style promptly after their relationship started, that reduced the inconvenient mistakes of identity. She made sure to send a gift to Obi-Wan’s room, too—even if they hadn’t been friends, she could hardly overlook the man who’d killed the Sith and lost his Master.

Fortunately the cleanup was going even more smoothly than it had Before, which gave her much-needed time to rest and meditate between her duties.

Palpatine would be arriving soon.

* * *

Quinlan wasn’t unused to dealing with others’ attraction, but that was in the underworld, where flirting was part of the natural language. Now he was dealing with nobility and their retinues, and he had no idea what he should do about Handmaiden Lassair.

The cluelessness was a novel feeling. It was also disconcerting and a bit troubling, since her ignorance meant she’d be an easy target to seduce. Some shadows in his position would deliberately break the kid’s heart, since that would protect her in the future.

_Not going there._

Fortunately, Queen Amidala was responding to some specific turn-ons rather than to him, specifically—and thank the Force she was self-aware enough to realize that, even if the way she controlled her libido was just one more detail that supported the premise that she was older than her fourteen-year-old body.

She’d also tracked down fresh clothing for him and Aayla, demonstrating an unusual familiarity with the Jedi dress code, both official and applied—including the stereotypical color palette.

The fabric was far too expensive for the Order, but it lacked the bantha fur that made his Padawan break out in a rash. He’d have to track down the seller, see if the fabric could be produced with a rougher weave. Proper robes would enable Aayla to actually _relax_ on Coruscant, since she wouldn’t be conflicting with her reputation as a respectable Jedi with her very appearance.

It did not escape him that him wearing what was essentially standard Jedi robes resulted in less—but not no—distraction for the queen.

(It also did not escape him that the primary decoy, Sabé, was the only handmaiden who had neglected to provide a family name the night before, and he was a bit disappointed that Aayla hadn’t caught that detail. She wanted to be Knighted at the same age he was, but she was still too dependent on him where it mattered. If he let her get Knighted now, she’d end up on the slave market. Kriff, her uncle selling her to a Hutt was how they’d _met_.)

Cleanup was progressing at speed, aided by the Force and a population that generally shrugged at the sight of a few droid carcasses floating with a man who was reading while he strolled along. Most flashes of fear had been _for_ him rather than _of_ him, and a few folks even bothered to ask cautiously if he wasn’t at risk of walking into something or dropping metal on his head.

Remarkably accepting of weirdness, the Naboo. Also quick to catch the logic of working in a grid, each person to their area.

He slowed his stride a little, so he could finish the current installment before he ran into—

“Quinlan!” Obi-Wan.

 _Ever she waits beneath the waves, mourning the love who can never join her_ , he finished reading—kriff, and he’d thought his people’s histories were depressing—then put away his reader, setting the carcasses atop the pile, and looked at his friend.

“What are you _doing_?” Obi-Wan demanded.

Quinlan gave an easy shrug, keeping his nonchalance. “What, and you’re not engaging in ‘frivolous’ use of the Force to help the cleanup, too?”

“Yes, but—“ he huffed. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

No, Obi-Wan was protesting how casual he was being about it, blatantly illustrating how easily Jedi could be dangerous. Quinlan wasn’t even particularly powerful—okay, his midichlorian count was a bit north of average, but accessing the Force and splitting one’s focus were two distinct abilities.

Case in point: vergence-in-the-Force Anakin Skywalker, beside Obi-Wan and struggling to get a single tangle of scrap metal from the ground to the pile a few meters away.

“Focus on where you need it moved and how,” he alerted the kid. “Not the tech specs. The Force doesn’t care what it weighs or if you’re tall enough to reach it.”

Anakin blinked at him, and Obi-Wan’s cheeks flushed—embarrassment, not anger, and fortunately Kenobi was well-centered enough at the moment that he didn’t hear the tip as some kind of censure.

The scrap shot from the ground into the pile and might’ve caused a landslide if Quinlan hadn’t been expecting it. (But maybe not, with how quickly Obi-Wan grabbed after it, too.)

Quinlan and Obi-Wan worked together to restabilize the pile, and he sent his friend a mental prod to continue the lesson.

“Um, good,” Obi-Wan said awkwardly. “That’s where you need the metal to move to. Now remember ‘how’ you want it to get there—a gentle landing, not a crash.”

The next clump stumbled into the air and almost rolled into the head of Eirtaé, who ducked even before she’d turned enough to be able to spot it.

“Oops!” Anakin blurted.

Obi-Wan caught the metal before it plummeted. (So did Quinlan, but he let go as soon as he realized Obi-Wan had it.)

“Handmaiden Frizmar,” Quinlan said. The battle dresses of the day before had been maroon, dark and somber. Today’s gown was silver that transitioned to crimson around the knees, much like the paint the queen wore to split her lip. Perhaps they viewed the color as a reminder of already-spilled blood rather than as a warning.

He could just _ask_ about Naboo color symbolism, but where was the fun in that? “What brings you our way?”

She scrutinized the floating metal.

“Probably not a good idea.” Not if his suspicions were correct, about what aspects of the legends were true to history.

Curiosity flickered, but she accepted his advice…for now. “I just finished clearing a street nearby and was wondering what you Jedi were doing.”

Translation: She sensed them using the Force and came to see what she could learn.

For someone who was teaching herself by mimicking those around her, she was doing far too well at it. Not that he thought her faking her inexperience—her swiftness just had some worrying implications, especially with what was threaded through the legends.

“I have some more to pick up from my street,” he said. “Wanna come with?”

Disappointment flared in…Anakin? Eirtaé? Quinlan couldn’t distinguish, which was odd. Pretty much anywhere else, that would indicate close relatives, but here? He could throw all the usual rates of probability out the airlock, and he didn’t yet have enough data to even hazard a guess as to the applicable statistics.

Eirtaé considered but agreed to come along. And since the emotions he’d sensed fell behind them as she joined his stroll away from the scrap heap, he pegged them for Anakin.

She waited until they were well out of earshot of the others to ask, “ _Why_ isn’t it a good idea?”

Educating people outside the Order brought risk, and a number of Jedi therefore held the opinion that sharing detailed knowledge of the Force equated betrayal of the Order—as if forcing ignorance on others wasn’t itself risky, leaving outsiders with no option other than to make assumptions, which led to the extremes of worship and terror. Both did more harm than good to Jedi in the field.

Fortunately, Quinlan never had given a frip about that shit, but being willing to educate non-Jedi didn’t mean he had much practice in doing so. “Levitation’s a basic thing, yeah? Someone says ‘Jedi’, you think of that as a matter of course?”

Eirtaé shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Telekinesis is an extremely common Force ability, to the point that it can seem universally easy and safe to use.”

“Key word being ‘seem’?” she asked promptly, reinforcing that she was a good choice for this conversation, despite her age.

“Yes. Some people can’t use it—usually because they’re not Force-sensitive enough, but there’s one family in particular that can’t use it at all…unless they first use a rare Force ability they’re particularly good at.”

They reached his assigned cleanup area, and he grabbed a few more droid carcasses with the Force. At this rate, he’d need three, maybe four more trips, but the current pace was relaxing. He could use the mental break. Spies who ignored opportunities to safely rest promptly ended up dead or insane.

Not that the others didn’t go a little crazy, too. They just lasted longer.

Eirtaé grabbed one half-droid and hoisted it over a shoulder. For a noble-born girl who had left that life mere months ago, she was oddly strong.

As they started back toward the scrap pile, his eye caught on one of the many waterways in Theed, and he laughed at himself for missing the obvious answer for the physical fitness and agility found across all levels of their society. “You Naboo all swim.”

“It’s a standard form of recreation and relaxation,” Eirtaé said. “The family you mentioned—I presume that the Force talent they have to use before they can levitate things is unusual, and there’s a reason you’re not saying what it is.”

“Yes.” Quinlan could get away with a lot of shit, for reasons that ultimately derived from ‘technically stolen from a politically significant family by a Jedi healer known to hang out with assassins’. That did not mean he lacked limits entirely. Admitting that all Halcyons easily absorbed energy could get the Corellian Order after him, and they wouldn’t care that the Coruscant Order had good reason for minimizing the proof of his survival.

He mentally stepped back on topic before he triggered another cycle of nightmares. “Thing is, their talent is rare because it’s kriffing dangerous to learn. Anyone who tries is far more likely to permanently damage or kill themselves than they are to succeed. But for that family, it’s easy and even safe.”

Eirtaé froze. “You’re implying that _I_ have such a usually-dangerous-to-learn talent.”

She’d naturally caught that, just as usually dangerous abilities could be safe for some, generally safe ones could be dangerous. Good. That meant she’d heed his warning about telekinesis.

Quinlan looked at the sky and gauged her reaction with the Force, an extra verification that she truly as untrained as she seemed. She was curious and a little confused, but there wasn’t any trepidation or defensiveness.

She also was well aware of his scan, though he’d kept it light.

Ruefulness tinged his smile at the confirmation that his suspicions were probably in the right arena. “Handmaiden Frizmar, I’ve been reading your legends. I wouldn’t be surprised if _all_ Houses of Naboo do.”

* * *

Aayla had been set to helping the Gungans who’d volunteered to help clear homes, to make sure people wouldn’t return from the camps to find blood or the body of a loved one. They moved efficiently, discipline and training covering for their lack of experience, which was consistent with the tribal aspects of their culture.

“Does Boss Nass rule all Gungans, or just some of them?” she asked Captain Tarpals.

“Da boss speaks for all da Gungans.” He, like her, was keeping a wary eye on Jar Jar Binks, whose emotions were a jumble of desperation, dismay, embarrassment, fear, frustration, and loneliness that made Aayla very glad she was a Jedi. She might be a shadow, required to sometimes lie to even her closest friends for the good of the Order, but she had somewhere she belonged, a job she could _do_.

Binks yelped. Everyone else ducked. She caught the spatula before it broke against her skull.

It was not the first coincidental projectile to come at her.

The kitchen utensil had been launched by what had _seemed_ to be an entirely accidental and unintentional flail. If Binks was wanting her to believe him that ridiculously clumsy, he was overplaying his hand. But if, by some fluke, it _was_ as entirely unconscious and unwitting as his aura indicated…

She handed the spatula over to Captain Tarpals, for him to put away, and she pulled her posture just a bit inward, to highlight that she was a few years younger than Binks. “General?” she asked, pitching her voice with a bit of hesitance and keeping all suspicion locked tightly beneath her shields. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Uh…” He was blushing, and he looked to Tarpals for a signal for what to _do_ as he started going into the apologies that she’d already heard a few times.

She lifted her hands in _Stop_ , and he heeded them too promptly to be as stupid as his ridiculous amount of clumsiness made her want to believe. “Can we go to the garden? Let the team finish up in here?”

Binks blinked and hunched even more than she was, and he looked again to Tarpals, who shook his head and waved them off. The older Gungan seemed to wish well for Binks, to want him to grow up and move on his own feet.

Aayla was leery of ‘seemed to’s, since she knew all too well how they could be feigned, but ability to be feigned didn’t mean they necessarily were. All she really knew was that Binks was _probably_ faking, but ‘probably’ wasn’t ‘definitely’, no matter how improbable the other options were.

Regardless, something was very wrong about this Gungan.

“Uh, okie-day,” Binks said.

She followed him into the sunlight, pressing her hands together so she didn’t wring them. Her Master would’ve been able to play the conversation to narrow the options without cuing the Gungan in, maybe even get some hints as to his motives. She couldn’t do that yet, couldn’t hear all the nuances that Master Quinlan could in what a person said, or didn’t say.

But she did understand masks and how they could be used. She adjusted her hands, let them show anxiety, so there wouldn’t be anything odd about them hanging near her belt and weapon, just in case. The homes were settled into nooks that made them isolated enough that a competent person might risk retaliating.

“Is it my skin?” she asked, playing the part of someone observant enough to catch that the projectiles were coming at _her_ and oblivious enough to think it was all necessarily accidental. “My brain-tails? What is it about me that bothers you?”

It wouldn’t be her attire, since Queen Amidala had provided what was essentially standard Jedi robes. Aayla preferred her usual black bustier and trousers, influenced by Twi’lek fashion, but that brought a few downsides of its own. Wearing the ceremonial clothing provided by the queen was polite, and it reinforced the stereotype of what Jedi wore, which would help whenever someone was assigned to Naboo undercover.

Binks’s eyes bulged comically, his cheeks flushed, and he stuttered protests.

“It’s all right,” she assured him. “I just want to know what’s bothering you, to know if there’s something I can do to help you feel more comfortable with me.”

“It be yousa teeth,” he said. “So sharp.”

Aayla shook her head. “My people don’t eat sentient creatures. Even if they did, I am a _Jedi_. I wouldn’t.”

“Oh.” He looked sheepish, and the trepidation dropped by maybe a third.

Now she just had to watch what change, if any, there was to the incidence of unconventional projectiles coming at her.

What she really wanted was a midichlorian count on him, but there wasn’t any way to get a blood sample without cuing him in. If her wariness was warranted, that meant his aura was falsified, and Aayla didn’t dare test that alone.

Padawans were supposed to go to their Masters when in need of help, but ‘bumbling idiot’ was a personality that _her_ façade was designed to approach. She’d have to call her grandmaster for advice—he was a certified healer, maybe could create some excuse that would give her opportunity to check.

“Please let me know if there’s anything else, General Binks,” she said kindly. “In the meantime, your men can handle anything that needs moved. We just need you to keep an eye out for anything we miss.”

Captain Tarpals had already told him that, but perhaps he’d pay better heed to a Jedi that he (ostensibly?) found intimidating.

* * *

Eirtaé tapped the tree branch above her and rubbed her fingertips together, checking for bleed. Smokewood trees had the most beautiful six-petaled flowers of the palest gray, and bark that was nearly black. The wood itself swirled between the color of the flowers and bark, with hints of reds and yellows like flame.

They were _also_ susceptible to riverbugs, which would cause the smooth bark to seep. Smokewood sap could produce anything from mild irritation to severe burns, depending on the soil composition.

Along with the inherent beauty and risk, smokewood trees had dense enough cover to support the paint and delivery mechanism without being visible below. She and Vos had to move the bench to get it under the tree, but the moon garden was overdue for a rotation, so the new position wouldn’t strike any Naboo as odd.

She adjusted her crouch on one of the lower branches, and she laced the open bucket so it would be secure unless someone nudged it in just the right spot, not really reachable without either being up here or using the Force. Vos would’ve done it himself, but Eirtaé wanted an opportunity to actually _meet_ a councilor informally, as herself and not one of the queen’s handmaidens. Participating in the prank was the simplest way to put it on the councilor’s terms. If this Master Billaba was as ‘tricksy’ as the two Knights thought, she’d notice the invitation and respond—or not—as she desired.

Eirtaé checked the bark again, before she moved to a new spot. The remembrance gown was essentially the defiance gown, except with the silver and crimson of death rather than the orange and yellow of flame. She’d spent most of her life in skirts far more unwieldy, which she’d lacked the opportunity to change before fleeing up trees to hide her reading or to create an excuse her father wouldn’t be too angry about.

_Everything all right?_

“Just double-checking,” she answered aloud, without wobbling on the branch. “Smokewood sap can be hazardous.”

Eirtaé hesitated but ultimately decided to add one of the details that she found interesting, even useful, but for some reason disconcerted others. “Also can be used to produce a few different poisons.”

“Yeah?”

That question came from a different direction, and she was put off-center for all of a second before she realized he’d tossed his voice. She followed his presence in the Force, not the sound.

Then his aura vanished, and she nearly fell out of the tree.

“Vos—“

No, he was fine. She would’ve sensed a death, or even injury. She bit her lip and smacked her thoughts under the surface of her mind, letting the situation drift to her rather than trying to scrabble for or stumble through it. It wasn’t meditation, but he’d called it a solid start.

He was there, somewhere, but his presence was…fuzzy. Alive. But _where_?

The Jedi had helped her into the tree with the Force, and she was a bit too high up to jump safely by herself. Saché already had an injured leg. She didn’t need to have one, too.

But she couldn’t tell where he was, and she didn’t know how far he could reach with the Force. She took a gamble, jumping down where she’d last sensed him.

He caught her, as they’d planned, and set her down with a pleased smirk as his aura returned to her Force sense. “Good recovery. You’ll want to work on controlling your tongue, though. Vocalizing your surprise can get you killed.”

“What am I, your Padawan?”

“Not pretty enough,” he retorted, eyes glinting with humor.

The tease surprised a laugh out of her, and she made a show of glancing at her gown. “Ah, too much clothing.”

He snickered even as he grimaced. “Let’s not go there for another few years, okay?”

 _Huh?_ She had to pause and think through what she’d said to realize how most people would’ve meant her words. “Oh. Oops.”

“I understand,” he said, warding off any apology. “Well, not exactly, but…enough.”

And, in ‘another few years’, he’d be willing to help her learn to mimic flirting.

She smoothened her gown and plucked some twigs and leaves from her hair. “So why _are_ you bothering?” she asked, as they started out of the garden. “I’m not a Jedi. I’m not even allied with your Order. I’m sworn to a planetary ruler, in fact.”

His check in the Force for eavesdroppers was so swift and subtle that she didn’t even realize he’d done it until after he was watching her seriously, pointedly. They both worked from the shadows, and teaching her _could_ backfire…or result in the exchange of information, possibly even a shifting of her loyalties.

Vos shook his head. “I’m helping because you need it.”

That wasn’t a lie, but… “That’s not the only reason.”

“No.” He opened the door and held it for her, a courtesy that was an unvoiced ‘goodbye for now’, since they had to return to their separate duties. “But it’s the only one that matters.”

* * *

Where in the galaxy was Eirtaé? Padmé fretted.

It was too soon for Palpatine to retaliate yet—he’d make a test volley soon, and then she’d find out how much had truly changed, but not yet—and the dynamics had changed due to the additions of Masters Vos and Secura.

_Padawan Secura. Dear Shiraya._

Oh…and Vos was Obi-Wan’s age. That meant he had to be a Knight. And she’d been calling him a Master.

Padmé put her face in her hands. She was _not_ ready to deal with Palpatine.

Rabé paused in adjusting the hairpiece. “Your Highness?”

“It’s nothing.”

Rabé, Sabé, and even Saché (who was violating medics’ orders to stand on that leg, but Padmé couldn’t admit to knowing that when she couldn’t even remember when or where she’d found out) stared at her with polite disbelief. There was also an exchange of glances reminiscent of when her attendants had helped hide her husband.

“Will there be a threat at this meeting?” Sabé asked outright.

Padmé stared at her, nonplussed by how readily they were taking to her Force visions. How easily they were _trusting_ her. When she’d married Anakin, she’d already had years of friendship behind her requests, and Dormé and Eirtaé had still been unhappy about the secret.

She shook off the memory. “Please inform me as soon as we know which Jedi have arrived.”

Until then, she needed to meditate, to anchor herself in the here and now. The Sith Master would surely prod her mind, and she could not—could _not_ —respond.

“Your Highness?” Sabé said. “But Chancellor Palpatine—”

“The chancellor and councilors will have to understand that I have responsibilities that preclude greeting them as soon as they land,” she forced through grit teeth, remembering how much trouble she’d gone to, Before, and how it hadn’t netted Naboo a single credit in reparations. “In fact, offer them a tour through the Garden of Peace.”

Making it an offer would help it appear a naïve effort to curry favor by blatantly reminding them of the similarities between them, since the chancellor was Naboo and the councilors theoretically valued peace. Socially speaking, offers were invitations to refuse, and a wise politician never used them for things that were best accepted.

“I’ll be in the moon garden,” she said, hoping the change in scenery would help her center herself faster, so she could catch up on some of the research. She had the information from Eirtaé, even if she didn’t have all the information she’d requested or even know where—

Her comm buzzed. She checked it to find the list she’d asked for, of councilors and missions in a timeline, and let out a breath. Eirtaé was all right.

 _But where_ are _you?_

Padmé hadn’t dared investigate the holocron yet, but she was certain she’d never seen it Before. Which brought the question of how it had been found, this time. Master— _Knight! Knight_ —Vos, maybe?

She rubbed her temples and made herself focus on getting to the moon garden and _meditating_. Preparing herself to deal with the Sith Master was of the utmost importance. Everything else would have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both Jedi and Naboo are both willing to let youth act in independent roles that they have been trained to handle, even life-threatening things like combat. There is, however, a significant difference betwixt them.
> 
> Jedi children (whether Initiates or Padawans) who act in conventionally adult roles _are acting in supplement to an older teacher_. They are expected to make mistakes—they’re still learning, after all—and their teachers bear some culpability for the consequences of their decisions. Their “one teacher, one student” model theoretically and ideally ensures that no Jedi child is left without support.
> 
> Naboo children who act in conventionally adult roles _are acting as adults_ , with all the culpability for consequences that entails.
> 
> This expectation and culpability mean that the Naboo have their own definitions of “child” and “adult”. The way they lauded 9-year-old Anakin as planetary hero, responsible for his own actions (and with a response of “How did you get there?” rather than “Who let him get there?!”) indicates that the definition is not related to puberty.
> 
> This easy acceptance of young heroes also suggests that Naboo has a high proportion of the people of importance in their history who either acted or started acting very young. (This fits my headcanon of the Houses being prone to Force sensitivity, but there are other possible causes.)
> 
> So…how does Naboo define “child”?
> 
> According to canon, Naboo is a meritocracy, based on aptitude tests. It’s probable that Naboo’s definition of “age of majority” is based on certain scoring on those aptitude tests. You score high enough, and you are (or can be) an adult, regardless of age.
> 
> One downside would be that anyone who doesn’t score high enough in the traits valued by the culture of Naboo would then be considered children. Even if the law system had an age fallback as a safeguard, people who fit Naboo definitions or perceptions of “low intelligence” would face stigma and disadvantage that they wouldn’t elsewhere. (Ex. They’d be starting a career several years later than others their age.) This would encourage those who could to seek lives offworld. This could reduce the amount of “low” intelligence in the gene pool.
> 
> Something else to note is that merit-based “adults” would be held to the same standards as other adults, even though the neurons and experience for emotional control and long-term planning may still be developing. (There are studies. Pointing out holes would take more room than I have here.) Having aptitude and ability for something does not mean you necessarily are ready for that something, even if you think you are.
> 
> But feeling unready and being young don’t necessarily mean you are _unready_ for something, either, and such persons would benefit from the Naboo culture.
> 
> Abused children could also benefit, for they could organize their own finances, occupations, and living arrangements a lot more easily than they can in legal systems where the parents have ultimate authority and control. People who sought to provide housing and jobs for runaways (who usually have good reason for running away) could do so legally.
> 
> The outright legality of running away could make temporary running off more common—Naboo culture might even view it as a normal part of the growing-up process.
> 
> Permanent running away without good reason might be a bit more common than it is in our reality, but the personality required to even _want_ to flee and cut ties with a genuinely loving home means that those who did it would, overall, be the ones who would abuse their own families—the types that hurt their own children—and so their families would actually be the better off for the loss.
> 
> Most abused children would still be trapped. Maybe they can’t (or dare not) test high enough on the merit assessments. Maybe the parents successfully structure the child’s interaction with society so they think their parent is normal. Maybe they otherwise manipulate or pressure their children, or that children might not give their parents that authority in their efforts to earn the parent’s approval or love.
> 
> (Victims are held responsible to hide the abuse—abusers figuratively or literally beat that into them—and ones who dare speak out anyway learn fast that most people won’t believe them and/or will tell the abuser[s], which results in greater harm to them. Abusers also tend to intentionally surround themselves with people who will respond that way, and it’s not uncommon for them to introduce the child in such a way that’ll be predispose others to view the child as a troublemaker, liar, or storyteller.)
> 
> Altogether, Naboo culture would benefit some people and not others—just as happens in any other culture.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jedi were supposed to be heroes, not remind Anakin of certain customers who only came to the shop when the gambling had been bad, when Watto outright _needed_ the sale.

The Kiffar Jedi and his padawan made Anakin uneasy.

They were _too_ familiar, too close to the life he’d left behind on Tatooine, even though they were Jedi.

Master Quinlan _felt_ friendly, but…Obi-Wan was Anakin’s teacher, not _him_. He’d jumped at the opportunity to make Obi-Wan look bad. Friends didn’t do that.

He hadn’t even apologized for it.

Lifting stuff with the Force was weirdly draining. Anakin kept getting distracted, but he knew what to do now—and he’d learned it from Master Quinlan, rather than Obi-Wan. He _hated_ that.

 _‘Hate leads to suffering,’_ he remembered Master Yoda saying, and he flinched. “Does Master Quinlan join your missions a lot?”

The question seemed to startle Obi-Wan. “Not at all,” he said after a moment. “We… It’s unusual that we’re both in the same place. Our missions tend to be very different.”

Anakin concentrated on moving another tangle of scrap. Jedi were supposed to be heroes, not…remind him of certain customers who only came to the shop when the gambling had been bad, when Watto outright _needed_ the sale.

The comparison startled him while was in the middle of focusing on where he wanted some metal to go. He lost the ‘how’, and it clipped his head as it shot past.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan caught the pile, caught _him_ , and hastily sought to check his injury.

Anakin blinked. “I’m okay.”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” Obi-Wan’s voice shook. “I should’ve realized you’d still be tired from last night.”

“No, I’m…” A yawn interrupted him.

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Med center,” he said firmly. “Head injuries are not to be trifled with.”

Anakin knew that tone. It brought a pang of loneliness and misery. Mom was still on Tatooine, still a slave.

Obi-Wan wasn’t Mom, but Anakin was pretty sure he _cared_.

* * *

Anakin had nearly brained himself with some scrap he was moving, and Obi-Wan realized the boy was forcing himself to continue despite a desperate need for a nap. Obi-Wan rushed him to the med center, where they said he seemed fine but wanted to hold him for observation, to be sure.

Then the Council arrived and asked for him. Master Yoda Knighted him and accepted Anakin as Obi-Wan’s apprentice, even though the cleanup that morning had already illustrated how horrible of a teacher he was.

Rabé took the councilors on a tour through some Garden of Peace. Obi-Wan excused himself, though he didn’t really have anything else to _do_.

He made it back to his assigned rooms out of habit, feeling…numb? Empty?

He entered the sitting area between the entrance and the bedroom. On the small table were two shot glasses and a bottle of Corellian brandy—a _posh_ bottle, from a region he’d long wanted to try but hadn’t been able to afford or justify as a mission expenditure.

Obi-Wan stared at it and slowly opened the bottle, poured a little into one of the waiting glasses, took a sip. The flavor was rich and smooth on his tongue, a blend of smoke and tang.

And with that mere taste of it, he had a new favorite vintage.

New to him, at least. The queen had obviously known his fondness for it.

He wondered how many Jedi she had known as well, in her past life. And _how_.

The image of a blond-haired young man with Sith eyes and a fierce snarl flashed in his memory, with a phantom pain about his throat.

_Oh, Force._

Obi-Wan’s knees gave out, and he almost missed the couch. Some of the alcohol splashed from that—more, from his shaking hand.

He’d already realized that memory was Anakin, that something had gone terribly wrong.

Padmé had even hinted that Obi-Wan was the one to train Anakin in her alleged visions, and he’d gone and taken him as Padawan, anyway.

He was going to fail the Chosen One.

“Obi-Wan?” Quinlan entered without knocking, doubtless drawn by his turbulent emotions. “What’s the matter?”

He stared at his friend. “I’m going to fail him, Quinlan. I’ve gone and taken him as my Padawan, _and I already know I’m going to fail him_.”

Quinlan went Jedi-still, which usually meant exhaustion or emergency, although Obi-Wan wasn’t getting that vibe from him. Not quite. “Can I have some context?”

“Anakin,” he said. “Padmé said she was killed by a Sith, and—” He cringed, hardly bearing to say it.

Quinlan was maybe the only Jedi he _could_ admit this to, one who wouldn’t conflate potentiality with actuality, who wouldn’t fear Anakin for what he might become. Quinlan might have even seen it already, with whatever he’d read from the throne.

“I picked up a flash of what she’s seen. It was…fifteen years from now? But I’m pretty sure the Sith who killed her was _Anakin_. She tried to hide it, but she indicated _I_ trained Anakin. She even warned Qui-Gon—”

His voice cracked.

Quinlan stood there, waiting with a calm that put paid to the claims that he wasn’t Jedi material.

“You saw me this morning,” Obi-Wan continued. “What am I _doing_? I can’t even figure out how to teach him without someone guiding me.”

“It’s called practice, Kenobi,” Quinlan said seriously. “I’ve six years of this under my belt.”

Obi-Wan drew a breath. “That’s precisely my point. I have no idea what I’m doing. He says he likes how I explain things, but he’s just contrasting me with Qui-Gon. I’m _horrible_ at this.”

“You aren’t—”

Yes, he was.

Quinlan gave him a sharp glance. “Okay, so let’s say you are. You can get better. Learning, study, practice… You have options.”

“But he needs someone skilled _now_. How can I teach the Chosen One, someone whose midichlorian count surpasses even Master Yoda’s?”

Confusion speared the Force. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“What?”

“His having an insane number of midichlorians just affects how he uses what he learns, not what he needs to learn. He’s what, ten? You remember being ten.”

His friend relaxed into his standard nonchalance, and he sprawled in a chair. Quinlan swiped the second glass and the bottle of brandy. His eyebrows rose at the label, but he shrugged and poured himself a shot. “That was the year I got pulled out of the creche, if you need reminding.”

Obi-Wan stared at Quinlan, feeling even more of a fool for missing that Anakin, prophecy or not, was still just a young boy. “Oh.”

“No matter what else he is, Skywalker’s still a kid,” he said matter-of-factly, eyes glinting with good humor. “Former slave, so he’ll fear asking questions. Probably prone to spotting and expecting worst-case outcomes, no matter how improbable. Add the Huttese and mechanical skills, and he’s almost certainly a concrete thinker who has trouble with abstractions…”

The analysis spilled from him as easily as Bant rambled about medical conditions, or Garen about spaceships.

Quinlan smiled and nudged him with the Force. “C’mon, Kenobi. Join in. You know this shit.”

“Actually,” Obi-Wan said awkwardly, “I don’t.”

Quinlan stared at him in blatant bewilderment. “You… But… You know there are communication differences.”

“Being aware that languages and backgrounds affect communication does not mean I necessarily know what those effects _are_ , Quinlan.”

Embarrassment, dismay, and even disappointment threaded through the Kiffar’s aura as he let out a little laugh. “…Oops?”

Quinlan downed the shot not quite fast enough to hide an awkwardness.

Would their friendship falter, too, now that they both knew how little they had in common?

The easy sprawl vanished, as did the amusement on Quinlan’s face. “Kriff. I’m sorry, Kenobi. I assumed…but _I_ assumed. That’s on me, not you.“

Obi-Wan managed a weak smile.

Quinlan grimaced. “Look, just do your best, okay? Main thing to keep in mind is the kid’s going to be afraid to admit weaknesses, and ignorance counts as a weakness. He needs to both hear and see it’s okay—needs to know it happens to all of us, even you, and that you won’t hurt him or think less of him for it.”

“I can’t do this, Quinlan.”

“Yes, you—”

“I already failed him once.”

Quinlan leapt to his feet and flung a mangled mess of emotion into the Force. “Stop it, Kenobi! _Think._ The only reason _I’m_ here is because of whatever’s up with the queen. If I weren’t here, you’d be trotting back to the Temple tomorrow. You wouldn’t know what to ask. Force knows that the Council prefers me in the field than on Coruscant, so it would’ve been a while before we met again. By then, the kid would’ve been masking, I would’ve _still_ been stupid and assumed you knew shit you didn’t, and we wouldn’t have ever had this conversation.”

“That’s not your…” But that was the Kiffar’s _point_ , he realized. If Obi-Wan wanted to ruminate on fault, blame could fall a lot of ways.

“You are not responsible for what others never told you. You are only responsible for what you do with and about what you _do_ know, and I cannot believe that you wouldn’t have done your damnedest to keep that kid from breaking.”

“My ‘damnedest’ obviously wasn’t good enough.”

“So talk to him!” Quinlan snapped back. “Share understanding, build trust, so when he kriffs up, _he’ll fripping tell you_!”

They glared at each other. A few heartbeats passed, and they quietly worked through the anger and gave it to the Force, as the Jedi they were.

Quinlan hesitated, then refilled both shot glasses and sat back down, letting his posture admit the fatigue they both felt, physically and emotionally.

“I can’t talk to him about this, Quin,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “He’s already guessed that he ends up the Sith that killed Padmé.”

“Kriff. Poor kid.” His friend grimaced and tossed back his shot. “Maybe that’s a good thing. He’ll be more careful.”

“What if it isn’t? What if knowing he could be that is what made him become that?”

“I don’t know.” Quinlan stared at the bottle of brandy that even _Obi-Wan_ hadn’t known was his favorite, but the queen somehow had. “But do you really want to ask and risk breaking the one person who does?”

* * *

The moon garden had never been one of Padmé’s favorites, Before, though she couldn’t remember why. The smokewood trees reminded her of the burned husks of war, the ash in the air, the smell of the Temple burning. If she let her eyelids droop so she viewed everything through the veil of her lashes, the fireflowers and black-a-lils were almost (not really) Mustafar.

Maybe that was why she’d disliked it, the grim reminder of the aftermath of war. She’d had an academic, abstract understanding of that, even before the invasion. And after…

She’d known enough history to realize how much worse the invasion could’ve been…and to fear that it was a portent of aggression to come.

Padmé sat on a bench that had been placed squarely under one of the smokewood trees. She toyed with the thought of asking her grandmother, seeing if the Force ghost was around to dispense some advice, but annoyance and hurt disinclined her to do that. Nana had died, had left her alone for months, and then had appeared for the sole purpose of helping _Qui-Gon_.

Had Nana been a ghost Before, too, only to stand by and watch as her granddaughter’s world fell apart?

Her eyes burned with unshed tears that she wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow to muss her paint. The smudges would be faint enough that most wouldn’t notice, but Palpatine… _He_ would, and she refused to give him the satisfaction.

No, she had to steady herself, center herself. The Sith Master was in Theed, soon to enter the palace. He knew she was Force-sensitive, but not that she had training. She had to leave some upset on the surface, keep enough emotion above her shields that he wouldn’t bother to notice or look for the evidence that she wasn’t as ignorant as he assumed.

Shiraya help her, _could_ she do that? The past few days had proved how utterly unready she was. She had less experience and practice than most Jedi Initiates, never mind…

 _He does not expect you to know anything,_ she reminded herself. _Use that._

But outright faking inexperience required expertise. She couldn’t…

Or could she ask a Jedi for help? Did she dare?

Padmé clutched her comlink, knuckles whitening. She didn’t _know_ that Masters Vos and Secura were more than they seemed, but the news of them during the war had been…inconsistent and intermittent, in ways that differed from most of the generals. It reminded her of Obi-Wan’s stint undercover as a bounty hunter.

There was also the question of why the Council had sent _them_ —for all they knew, she was some kind of Darksider, and the Sith after her didn’t exactly help that impression. Why _would_ a Sith come out now, to target the queen of a small, politically insignificant world, unless there was something more going on? Surely others had drawn the same conclusion Qui-Gon had, that some form of collusion was the most probable cause. Yet those two had been the Council’s choice, even though Vos was younger than Aayla had been, upon her appointment to the High Council.

But who better to send to investigate Force tricks than Jedi who specialized in such trickery?

Force, she should’ve had Eirtaé look _them_ up. At least then she’d know if the hints and impressions she remembered fit with them now, or if it was just some side effect of the war or a mistake in her memory.

Padmé was not alone in the garden.

She stiffened just before she recognized the aura.

“Your Highness,” Master Billaba said politely, her posture and voice soothing as she stepped into Padmé’s field of vision. “It is good to see you again, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

She must have refused the offered tour, but why come to this garden? “As do I, Master Jedi.”

Amusement flickered in Master Billaba’s eye, on the edge of her lips.

Padmé had just admitted that she’d met the Jedi before.

Dear Shiraya. At least she’d also been introduced as someone who had visions, so…

No, ‘Padmé Naberrie’ had been introduced with the visions, so there was no way that her words could be something other than an admission that Queen Amidala _was_ Naberrie. Kriff.

“I apologize for my intrusion,” the Jedi Master said. “I sensed some turmoil in the Force and thought Knight Kenobi could use some company.”

Hopefully, Palpatine would make the same assumption, as to the source of the turbulence in the Force.

Padmé offered, “I believe that is being handled by Master Vos—I’m sorry, I mean Knight Vos, of course.” She pressed her lips together. She had to _stop_ that.

“As ‘Master Jedi’ is a common form of address by those outside our Order, I do not believe it noteworthy that you confuse our titles.” Master Billaba’s expression was smooth, as if she hadn’t just given an excuse for Padmé to not fret about that particular slip-up.

In fact… “You _suggest_ I persist in calling various ranks ‘Master’, in order to give the impression that I know little of your Order.”

The Jedi gave a slight shrug and sidled towards Padmé, glancing up at the branches above her. “Merely an observation.”

That too-placid tone was _very_ familiar. Padmé narrowed her eyes. “I am certain that the fact you are the youngest member of the Council has no influence on your manner of dispensing advice.”

The grin and glint of the eye were swift, but they reminded Padmé very much of Obi-Wan, in that all too brief time between her meeting him again and the slaughter at Geonosis. He’d been embarrassed by his apprentice’s appalling behavior, but he’d been relaxed, even happy in a way that grief had fractured, after.

“May I ask a question about your visions?” Master Billaba asked.

“Only one?”

“Only one,” she agreed, with an unvoiced ‘for now’. “How old were you, when the Sith killed you?”

Padmé’s throat drew tight, and her body clenched with phantom labor pangs.

Master Billaba was staring at her, eyes a little wide.

She remembered the landing platform, how she’d gotten an image from Obi-Wan.

_Force telepathy? Kriff._

Padmé scooted on the bench, making room for the Jedi even though rulers always sat alone. _Kriff protocol._

Master Billaba accepted the invitation, her movements graceful but a bit unsteady and a hair too fast.

“Did the child survive?” the Jedi whispered hoarsely.

Padmé gave her a sharp look. Master Billaba had been among the first to crack in the war, and she feared she now had an idea as to _why_. “They both did,” she answered softly. “Twins.”

Relief rippled through the Force, though the Jedi Master’s shoulders slumped only slightly.

“Did yours?” slipped out, fatigue loosening her tongue.

“I don’t know.”

 _Oh, gods._ Padmé should’ve expected that, considering the Jedi didn’t even know about her own _sister_. But she’d seen the reports of Master Billaba’s career, and unless something was forged, the opportunities for her to have had a secret child were few. And _young_. For her to still be this affected…

_What am I thinking? This is the Jedi Order we’re talking about. What’s past is past and can’t possibly have any present effects that need help beyond the Force to resolve._

Master Billaba would have much the same problem as Padmé, when it came to seeking therapy. Possibly even more, at this point in their lives, since even those who looked up to her would be disillusioned by an imperfect Master on the High Council, and the Sith was after her, too. Not as personally as he’d hunt Padmé, but…

Ah, but the Jedi would never be so public and recognizable as Padmé would, after she became senator.

She hesitated, not wanting to offend the councilor, but… “My people value discretion. A mind healer here would not need to know what you are. Or even who.”

Master Billaba was too still. She must’ve taken offense.

Before Padmé could figure out a tactful apology, the Jedi Master—who, she suddenly realized, was _young_ , even younger than Padmé had been when she died—shook herself and released a pulse of discomfort and distress into the Force. Leaves rustled and branches trembled from the brush of it.

“Master Jed—”

Something wobbled overhead, and Padmé had time for a flicker of concern before all she saw was a waterfall of lightsaber green.

* * *

The sabbac of the night before had reminded Rabé to heed the twitches of hands and eyes more than a person’s words and pitch, particularly when they conveyed two different messages.

Chancellor Palpatine was annoyed, maybe even angry, and he’d been showing those tics even before he’d been redirected through the tour.

Family Lassair was Housed, not a House, and Rabé was sure she was missing some social nuances that Eirtaé could’ve taken advantage of. As it was, she was still trying to catch the names of the Jedi, since she didn’t know the etiquette of asking for the names of persons who did not make introductions. The lady councilor had excused herself, to go check on Knight Kenobi, but the others had joined on the tour, and she could not fulfill the queen’s request for information without _names_.

Rabé thought she’d seen holodramas with the odd little green one, who she’d offered a hoverchair. Unfortunately, all they had available were sized for Humans, not…whatever he was, and he’d elected to walk, instead. He obviously hadn’t realized the Garden of Peace was what other planets might call a park or open-air museum, perhaps as large as the palace itself, and his limp was getting painful to watch.

Chancellor Palpatine twitched—startled? interested?—and Eirtaé stepped out out of a nearby auxiliary path. Her gaze paused on the chancellor before she glanced over the rest of the group.

She stepped into Saché’s position, dismissing the other handmaiden with a pointed glance to her own limp, consequence of her recent injury, then Eirtaé bent to reduce the distance between her face and the little green councilor. “Master Yoda, may I offer my shoulders?”

How did Eirtaé know the names of the Jedi? No matter—she could send notice to the queen, after Rabé had a discreet moment in which to inform her of what Her Highness wanted.

The Jedi’s ears spread, and his face brightened with a smile. “You may, and my thanks, I give.”

Eirtaé turned and bent. Master Yoda climbed onto her back, and she stood smoothly, ignoring the others’ scrutiny, which varied between wariness and curiosity.

Rabé knew the other handmaiden’s gracefulness came from years of training and practice as the daughter of a House, but jealousy twinged anyway.

Eirtaé paused, gazing towards the city. “Forgive me, Masters Jedi, but—” Her glance slipped to the chancellor, and Rabé had the sense that she changed her words. “I mean no disrespect.”

“And taken, no offense is,” Master Yoda answered. “A kind heart, you have.”

That blink and quick loosening of fingers admitted surprise. Why would Eirtaé be _surprised_ by something like that?

Regardless, she positioned her hands to claim secondary duty, leaving Rabé to continue conducting the tour for the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic and various Jedi Masters from the High Council.

“Handmaiden Frizmar,” Chancellor Palpatine said. “How is your father?”

Eirtaé froze.

“The Lord of House Frizmar is currently under censure.” Rabé kept her voice even, as if she wasn’t pointing out that the chancellor had just issued insult. “Never mention a censured person to their relatives” was a detail of House etiquette that her uncle enjoyed pretending to forget, and professional sabbac gave him plenty opportunity.

“Oh? I apologize. I had no idea.”

His ignorance of Lord Frizmar’s status was probably genuine, judging from the anger flexing his fingers and eyes again.

“Would you prefer to abridge the tour?” Rabé offered.

Eirtaé winced, but if she’d wanted to avoid breaches of propriety, she should’ve taken over as primary.

Rabé continued, “There will be refreshments awaiting us back at the palace.”

“I would _prefer_ to speak to Queen Amidala,” the chancellor said. “Surely Her Highness has time for an old friend.”

The queen had made no mention of Palpatine as a friend. Rabé looked to Eirtaé, unsure how to answer.

“She is arranging Master Jinn’s funeral,” Eirtaé said, then addressed the Jedi directly. “Padawan Kenobi said that Jedi are cremated?”

Rabé frowned before she could stop herself. Even if Eirtaé’s lack of response to the chancellor’s greeting was following some House etiquette Rabé didn’t know, Eirtaé knew full well that Kenobi was a knight.

“That is correct,” said the dark-skinned man, who her instincts called dangerous though she couldn’t say why. “We met with Knight Kenobi before we did with you.”

Eirtaé and that Jedi Master exchanged a glance—his suspicious, hers demure. Rabé had the distinct sense that she’d missed something.

“Hmm. Suit these old bones, some rest would.”

Rabé looked to the chancellor for his preference, and something brought to mind her uncle, when he was around people in whose good graces he wanted to stay.

No, Senator Palpatine was too honest for that, too sincere—

Rabé’s stomach turned. That was how her uncle’s defenders described _him._

She glanced to the Jedi, and her stomach settled. They were fine with the chancellor. Surely Jedi had the experience and wisdom to recognize people like her uncle when they saw them.

“Some refreshment might do us all some good,” Chancellor Palpatine said graciously.

“Very well,” Rabé said, and she led them back to the hovercar, to go to the palace, where they could relax and Eirtaé could alert the queen who their guests even were.

* * *

Eirtaé saw Master Yoda to a chair at a refreshment table, then took the first opportunity to pull Rabé aside—well, aside and out into the hallway, too far to be overheard by the guests without accessing the Force, which she hoped she’d notice.

The hall had wide windows overlooking some of the paths for the night gardens, including the moon garden that Vos picked to set their setup for her to witness Chalactan meditation practices.

“What legends is Vos reading?” Eirtaé blurted, keeping her voice sot but not a whisper. (Whispers attracted attention—Palpatine had taught her that, himself.)

Rabé blinked at her. “What?”

“Vos!” she snapped before she could rein in her annoyance. “I suggested he read our legends, but I didn’t give him an author. The others hadn’t met him until the sabbac game. The queen doesn’t—”

Queen Amidala _did not know the legends_.

How was that possible?

The Naboo education system meant the queen could’ve studied something else instead—ancient history, for example, or intergalactic politics—and never mind _how_ Eirtaé somehow knew of the queen’s ignorance, but how had Amidala traveled back in time if she hadn’t even known it was possible?

Maybe the Force ghost had something to do with it? Eirtaé had no reason to believe they had, but she had nobody else to ask. Padawan Secura had demonstrated familiarity with the theory, so perhaps that Jedi could help Eirtaé track down the ghost. Gods willing, they would be able to help, whoever it was.

_Hopefully not King Veruna._

She had no real evidence, only potential connections across multiple not-necessarily-related pieces, and she prayed to the gods that she was wrong, because—

Eirtaé forced herself back on-topic before the chancellor oh-so-conveniently happened to look for her, to effectively offer his condolences for her father’s stupidity—maybe even apologize again, if her alarm was warranted and he’d noticed it.

( _“If someone notices what you don’t want them to see, distract them. When that fails, undermine them. When that fails, use or dispose of the resource,”_ someone told her when she was seven. She couldn’t remember who told her or why she’d repeated it or even what the consequences had been, only that her father had punished her severely.)

She rallied herself to continue, to give herself a chance to avoid becoming such a disposable resource. “The queen didn’t suggest anything, so you did. Who did you recommend?”

“Omira,” Rabé said, still sounding confused. “They’re my favorite.”

Eirtaé’s limited access to the legends meant she didn’t know the authors or even which she’d read. “Send me…”

She stared out the window, her horror taking a new form altogether.

Rabé turned to follow her line of sight and gasped. “Is that…”

But there wasn’t any reason to ask, because strolling up the path were both Master Billaba _and the queen_ , drenched in a very familiar vividly green paint.

“Handmaiden Frizmar. Handmaiden Lassair.”

They both jumped and turned to find Master of the Order Windu—who, Eirtaé recalled from her research, had trained Master Billaba.

He pointedly glanced towards the victims of the prank and then stared at her, outright daring her to prevaricate. “Anything you wanted to tell me?”

Forget whyever the Sith had targeted Naboo. She’d get fired and her father would murder her, and then she wouldn’t be a threat to anyone, anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone makes sense to themselves. The differences in what various people decide, say, and do all depend on what a person perceives, believes, and values.
> 
> Even if someone makes a decision you think is completely, utterly, and always the worst choice possible, _they have reason for it_. That reason might not be anything you think legitimate, but it’s legitimate to them. Thus why they do it.
> 
> “What reasons are legitimate?” depends very much on your culture, subculture, religion, upbringing, education, experience, and personality.
> 
> As a very simple example, let’s take “Caffeine can be a painkiller.” This statement is demonstrably true, with studies (in the US and elsewhere), examples (the medication Midol is caffeine + Tylenol), or anecdotal evidence (I use it to help my chronic pain, though I mix it with some other things to boost effectiveness).
> 
> Some folks will refuse to believe that caffeine has painkilling properties no matter what evidence is provided, since it wasn’t made by doctors. Some just need the claim from a source they trust to do research. Some will believe anecdote, some will believe studies, and some will need to see it actively used in medication in order to believe it.
> 
> People will believe as they want, unless they’re willing to believe otherwise. That’s life.
> 
> But people also want, believe, and perceive according to what they have opportunity to want, believe, or perceive.
> 
> In addition, your mood affects your neurochemistry and biology, both of which also affect your mood. It’s a cycle, one that can get exacerbated by personal factors like allergic reactions (which increase anxiety).
> 
> That’s why it can be so hard to pull out of a mood spiral, and why some form of medication can be needed to normalize, to settle the emotions into something less extreme. (Assuming that you _can_ pull out and your mood issues aren’t due to some underlying physical cause.)
> 
> But even when an emotion is induced by biology or something we can’t admit to ourselves (ex. anger at family when we don’t want or aren’t allowed to be angry), _there will be justifications and reasoning_ that feed it, which must be addressed for a person to be able to identify the cause and then move past or work around it, if they so want.
> 
> This reasoning is often unconscious, where it’s in our subconscious and influencing our behavior and reactions in patterns that an observer can recognize and identify and help guide us into seeing for ourselves. Thus the existence of therapists, who ideally are professional observers and guides.
> 
> Of course, therapists are still fallible people, and their job description means that some types of toxic persons actually seek that line of work on purpose, for various reasons that would get off-topic to delve into.
> 
> In any event, if someone is convinced of something that makes no sense—like, believes themselves selfish even though they’re the most generous person you know—there’s a reason. Maybe you can convince them that they’re not, but you’ll probably end up stumbling over definitions and qualifiers the other person puts on the words, due to their own experiences and backgrounds.
> 
> How do you counter that?
> 
> There are two main routes, and “Which should I use?” depends very much on the person and situation, even when you see and understand a person’s motivator.
> 
> 1\. Start from the root and build up. (Ex. Quinlan’s question about what Anakin’s midichlorian count had to do with teaching him.) This can lead to confusion and aggravation, if too many transitions are missing and the other party can’t see how what you’re saying has anything to do with what they’re saying.
> 
> 2\. Start from the surface and build down. (Ex. Quinlan’s points about what Obi-Wan can do to improve his ability to explain things.) This can lead to even surface agreement not being applied to the root issue, because the other person will use definitions or qualifiers that tweak the situation so they can’t really see the parallels.
> 
> In both situations, a person has to be willing to be convinced in order to be convinced, whether that’s a belief in the painkilling effects of coffee or acknowledging that someone you/they care about is habitually abusive.
> 
> It’s also affected by what is “normal” in a person’s experience. (A common example is what it means to love or be loved by someone.)
> 
> These factors affect communication and people in general, making it useful to consider for everything from everyday conversation to chatting with an abuse victim. Also useful for building believable characters that you don’t necessarily agree with. ^_^


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Master Jedi,” Padmé interrupted, “if you apologize for being a fallible sentient, I will slap you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. It took me a bit extra time to put this chapter together, and I needed my beta reader DasObiQuiet to check it before I posted.
> 
> Also, extra thanks to everyone leaving comments. It’s encouraging and reassuring when life’s kicking me, again. Not that it ever stops, but some times are rougher than others. I’m in a less-fun-than-usual time, at the moment.
> 
> Regardless, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> * * *
> 
> As a note about last week’s stuff on Depa, her life is not explored much in old or new canon. Her displayed personality is quiet and sly, and she prefers negotiation to combat—but, once in combat, she can outright slaughter the enemy. The Council also seems to be careful about what missions they send her on. I’ve built some details to explain/fit all that, the silence, and the disparity in her between the start and end of the Clone Wars.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Update: I had an oops…**
> 
>  
> 
> Aayla didn’t make High Council. She made “senior master”. I’m still deciding how I’m going to adjust the story.

For a few seconds after the unexpected downpour, Padmé and Master Billaba had blinked at each other, dripping with liquid so vivid that Padmé had never worn the color once, in all her years in as queen or senator.

“Your planet has the most interesting weather,” Master Billaba said evenly.

“Indeed,” Padmé replied, matching her tone. “The colored microshowers are particularly unique.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it ‘unique’. Bucket-us clouds do make an appearance on Coruscant, from time to time.”

Padmé had to summon all her years of experience to keep from bursting out with laughter, but she couldn’t reply aloud without losing it. She gestured towards the palace, in wordless suggestion to go get cleaned up, and the Jedi nodded.

And that had been enough to get them on the paths headed in, with Padmé regretting that she’d never gotten a chance to know Master Billaba, Before. By the time she’d been regularly associating with the Order, the Jedi had been in the field or insane.

_Field assignments and insanity didn’t stop you from knowing Barriss._

Padmé shook her head at herself, reeling her thoughts back in. Last thing she needed was some Jedi to pick up _that_. The girl was currently…nine? Somewhere around Anakin’s age. She wasn’t crazy yet—and if Padmé could somehow stop Palpatine, she might never have to be.

“I truly am sorry about your gown,” Mater Billaba said. “I’d noticed there was _something_ above us, but—”

“Master Jedi,” Padmé interrupted, “if you apologize for being a fallible sentient, I will slap you.”

Surprise and delight puffed into the Force like one of the dust bombs Bail had shown her, after discovering she’d never seen one before. The comparison was amusing.

The sensation was also oddly…dry, considering Padmé usually understood what she sensed by some sort of water metaphor.

Eirtaé came running up the path, eyes wide with terror, doubtless at the political nightmare of the queen and foreign ambassador getting caught in a prank. Master Windu was following along behind, not as swift, but not wasting any time, either.

“Your Highness,” Eirtaé blurted between pants, “I’m so sorry—I’ve never known you to use that garden and–and—”

Padmé stared at her handmaiden. “ _You_ approved this?”

“It’s water-soluble!” From the desperation in Eirtaé’s expression and voice, she didn’t really expect that to help. “It wasn’t meant for you. It was meant for—” Her gaze flicked to Master Billaba. “Er.”

Neither Master Billaba nor Master Windu looked surprised that the councilor had been singled out for such a prank. Had this happened Before, just without Padmé’s knowledge? She’d spent the day inside, organizing things she’d already finished, mostly last night. She’d gotten so much practice with such administration Before that she couldn’t help her efficiency now.

Eirtaé waved helplessly at the liquid. “Green, in honor of his master’s lightsaber.”

But that meant— “This was _Obi-Wan’s_ idea?”

“Oh, I’m sure Quin contributed,” Master Billaba said dryly.

Windu sighed. “On behalf of the Jedi Order—“

“Careful, Mace,” Billaba interrupted, her voice mostly sedate and ever-so-slightly sly. “The queen already ordered me not to apologize.”

“Ordered?”

“Mhm. Else she’d smack me.”

Windu hesitated, scrutinized Padmé, and she felt something shift in the Force. He went stiff.

Eirtaé flicked a startled glance at him, then froze as the all-too-familiar ice washed over Padmé.

“Your Majesty!” the new chancellor called as he approached, sounding half concerned, half affronted. “Whatever happened?”

Admitting it was a prank would give him an opening to deride the childishness of it, giving him fodder to cast aspersions on herself and her staff (or the Jedi Order, if he found out Obi-Wan and Vos’s part in it) for years to come. Padmé called upon all her experience sidestepping such machinations Before and selected a tack that would take effort to use in a derogatory manner.

“Just someone seeking to bring some light to the dark days,” she said pleasantly. “It was not meant for us”—completely true, whether she meant that ‘us’ in the royal sense or the plural—“and we were in a garden we are not known to frequent.”

Come to think of it, Padmé wasn’t sure she’d even entered that garden yet, at this time Before. Eirtaé must have been consulted in picking the staging ground, to avoid catching the wrong person.

Palpatine’s lips curled in a smile that didn’t entirely hide disgust. “Such childish disrespect for those lost in the invasion.”

“It is my experience that loved ones desire us to continue with our lives, after they are gone. Not wallow in mourning.” Padmé mentally braced herself and intentionally violated etiquette by asking, with a child’s innocent curiosity, “Did your family differ, in that regard?”

Eirtaé’s eyes went huge. Both Jedi carefully schooled their reactions, and shock bled from the chancellor. (She hadn’t ever looked up House Palpatine in her family’s holocron, to see what Nana had written on them. She’d have to correct that oversight as soon as everyone left.)

“I beg your pardon?” Chancellor Palpatine asked, clipping the consonants.

Padmé blinked as if confused, taking advantage of the relative safety the current company and situation provided to strengthen his impression that she was naïve. “Your family. The hyperspace accident was horrible, but surely they would be proud about what you have accomplished in the decades since.”

“And _how_ ,” Palpatine said with careful restraint, “do you know of my family?”

She frowned. “Oh, you know how the old can ramble before they die.” That wasn’t an intentional jibe, not at all. “My grandmother said something…” entirely unrelated, but “It would be ever so horrible for your family’s holdings to default to the crown after you pass. So much history, with no one to remember it.”

Would Luke or Leia ever have known who she was? Would Ryoo and Pooja have learned of their cousins?

Force help them all, who would have inherited the secrets of House Naberrie?

Padmé shook off the thought. Nana made a safely dead target for her to blame for the knowledge of House Palpatine, and maneuvering the pressure to produce an heir and efforts to exterminate the House would conveniently tie up some of the chancellor’s time and resources that would otherwise go into furthering his plans.

_Unless he just has a woman impregnated and killed, then raises the child as another apprentice._

_No, he…_

_Kriff. He would. Dear Shiraya, I should have kept my mouth shut._

She allowed herself a slight girlish smile. “Have you an eye on anyone? If you wed or father during my reign, you _must_ allow me to host the ceremonies.”

Then she’d at least know they existed, get a chance to maybe track them and figure out a way to rescue them.

Palpatine was studying her. “Your grandmother mentioned the accident, you said? That was a very long time ago.”

“Before my parents were born, I believe,” Padmé agreed, then realized that very specificity of knowledge was what was catching his attention. _Kriff._ He would’ve hidden the details, made it hard for other Houses to notice how close his was to dying out. The throne had enough power and property, without adding another extinct family—and those who saw the royal holdings as supplements to their own power might seek to assassinate the remaining members of a family so small.

There was reason rulers of Naboo took formal names, distancing themselves from their lineage while they ruled. The Great Time of Peace still had duels and assassinations and the like; the Houses just kept such matters among themselves, not including their retainers or others in the plotting.

Padmé wondered, suddenly, if the Naberrie holocron included information for the families that had died out, over the past milennia. And what the lineage records would show if it did.

She gave a slight shrug and forced her voice to stay light. “Nana never said why” she was lingering with Qui-Gon’s ghost.

Lying without triggering Jedi senses was depressingly easy. All she had to do was omit some words from a true statement.

Something rolled from her head to her eyelid, reminding her that she was still coated with whatever the liquid was. “If you’ll excuse me, Chancellor, Master Billaba and I must clean up. The funeral for Master Qui-Gon will be after dinner.”

It had better be all set up. She’d made the arrangements and set Panaka to the task, and if he’d sabotaged that…

_You can’t afford to fire him._

_Watch me._

The goosebumps on her arms reminded her why she could not.

_Kriff._

But she was beside a Sith who would slaughter her and everyone around them if he discovered what she knew, so she kept her smile and strolled away. It wasn’t her first time turning her back on an enemy.

His next move would be to order the clone army, if he hadn’t already.

(A war would need troops on both sides, and the clones had been the Republic’s, so he would’ve already done so. Probably. Maybe? Was the war part of his original plan, or had he originally intended attrition by trade cartel?)

Regardless, Padmé still had to _find_ Kamino. Surely Palpatine would have it all ordered before she could get there, see what she could do to mitigate the harm.

 _Funeral tonight. Parade tomorrow._ _And then…_

And then she’d take advantage of the busy-ness caused by the parade to see about setting up the main changes she planned to make to her reign: keep in touch with Anakin and other Jedi, and take her to-come recuperation quiet and offworld and on her own.

That second one would doubtless be the more difficult of the two. 

* * *

 

Aayla was politely suppressing the grumbling of her stomach by the time Captain Tarpals suggested General Binks dismiss them for dinner.

Jar Jar blinked in surprise. “Mesa?”

“Yes, Jar Jar,” the captain said patiently, though not without a small sigh. “And yousa and da Jedi have dinner with da queen, tonight.”

“Mesa?”

Another sigh. “Yes, Jar Jar.”

“Palace is that way, right?” Aayla asked, pointing in _almost_ the right direction.

Jar Jar protested loudly and promised to get her to the palace without any trouble.

Captain Tarpals opened his mouth to correct her, then gave a tired smile as he realized she’d done that on purpose, to give Jar Jar something to focus on that would hopefully get them to dinner with a minimum of distraction.

Aayla grinned back, headed after Jar Jar, and pretended she didn’t notice the Force-whisper of her grandmaster among a group of Human Naboo up ahead, which had a ruckus of sound and emotion consistent with a pub. The queen had caught his curiosity, then, even from the initial reports.

She felt a bit of worry that he’d override Master Quinlan’s willingness to let her _not_ inform the Council of the possibility of time travel or possession, but that was drowned out by elation. Her grandmaster was _here_.

That meant that, even from what had already been reported, he saw this situation as Important. He’d make sure Aayla and her Master had leeway to stick around or drop in, and so she’d have the long-term access to Jar Jar to figure him out…and she wouldn’t even have to report what she was up to until she was done.

Oh, this would be _fun_.

* * *

Corellian brandy pounded Obi-Wan’s skull.

Why _had_ the councilors summoned him while they were in atmosphere, to meet them when they landed—even before greeting the queen’s people?

It wasn’t as if they’d needed to talk to him about anything beforehand, so there had to be some other reason they’d delayed meeting with Amidala’s people. It wouldn’t be to drop off a Shadow—Quinlan and Aayla were already here.

…And already known as Jedi to the queen. Of course. So a shadow investigation would need someone undercover. Obi-Wan wondered if it was anyone he knew. Maybe not, if they’d thought through the implications of Amidala’s visions.

As for him, Master Windu had called him ‘Knight Kenobi’ (not commenting on his braid), and Master Billaba had asked if he wanted Anakin as his padawan.

She’d called him Obi-Wan, and that had startled him into remembering that they’d been in the same generation in the creche. She’d been in a different clan and progressed to Padawan (and later, Knight) about the same time as Quinlan, though she was a bit older than them both, but Obi-Wan realized abruptly that he had no idea what she’d been doing, between being Mace’s Padawan and her appointment to the Council last year, which had given her the rank of Jedi Master.

That had been disconcerting enough, but he’d stared at Master Billaba— _you called her Depa, once, when you were children, and a Knight-with-Padawan can call a Master by her given name if she allows it_ —and realized that _she_ would ask Anakin to be her padawan, if he didn’t.

The Force had swirled, almost uneasily, although it didn’t say Depa’s interest was bad. In his distraction, Obi-Wan admitted that Anakin had already asked him, before the battle. The Council took that as justification to outright make the declaration official.

Obi-Wan ran a hand over his face, fighting for focus. Two and a half shots of brandy was one too many for him on an empty stomach, he thought mournfully, not quite sure what was bothering him about the sequence of events that wouldn’t leave his head.

Anakin was quiet to his left, watching everyone for cues how to eat when he wasn’t staring wide-eyed at the queen on his other side, at the head of the table, or the Gungan leader across from him.

A handmaiden refilled his water. “Would you like another bowl, Master Jedi?”

He blinked at her, at his plate, and realized he’d finished every bit of his serving of light salad atop savory minced shaak, in bowl made of crispy, chewy bread. “If you don’t mind.”

“I’ll bring that right out for you.”

The young woman was true to her word, settling another bread bowl before him maybe a minute after taking his old plate—and that attention to his wishes made Obi-Wan realize what, precisely, was niggling at him about the entire conversation with the Council.

They’d _assigned_ Anakin to be his padawan.

_They didn’t even ask him, just took me at my word. Assumed I hadn’t misunderstood or misrepresented his wishes. Assumed Anakin hadn’t changed his mind and still wants to be a Jedi. Assumed that he even understands what it is to be a Jedi, to be able to make an informed choice._

That was…

Obi-Wan remembered the angry young man, lost to the Dark Side, and wondered if the Council’s presumption illustrated one of the causes.

“Obi-Wan?” asked a voice that was female and familiar and took him far too long to recognize as Master Billaba.

She— _Depa_ —took the open seat to his right, and he noticed she wore the Naboo version of Jedi robes, same as what Quinlan and Aayla were wearing, on the other side of the table. Obi-Wan himself was facing Jar Jar.

He gave a wary glance across the table, concerned about the safety of the dishware. Aayla smiled sweetly from beside Jar Jar, so she was keeping an eye on that.

“Are you all right?” asked Master Depa. “You don’t usually let Quin talk you into pranks in public.”

How did she know—

Obi-Wan blinked, realizing what must’ve happened. “Oh, you found the paint.”

The handmaiden serving this side of the table set a bread bowl before her. Master Depa deftly used the Force to check for poisons as she said, “As did the queen.”

He took a little too long to follow that was the reason for her placement next to him, closer to the queen than even Master Yoda, and quite possibly why the queen was wearing a different gown—though he was pretty sure he’d seen the decoy wearing that deep purple on the ship. “Oh.”

Master Depa started into her meal and waved for the spiked punch to pass her by. “I like her.”

Obi-Wan realized he’d never told the Council about the holocrons—not the one found or the one that Amidala had admitted that her father had. He had to report that.

But as he saw Aayla poking suspiciously at a vegetable in the salad and Quinlan straightening her curled-up collar, he remembered the Force-shielded box that Amidala put the holocron in. What other artifacts did she have or have access to? If he reported now and the Council took the holocron, any other artifacts would surely be hidden, making it that much harder to—

“Chancellor,” Amidala said. “Masters Jedi.”

Obi-Wan noticed that everyone was seated and eating—all the Jedi he knew were here, the queen’s council. The chancellor himself sat at the far end of the table, across from the queen.

“Thank you for joining us for this meal,” she continued. “After, we will—”

She stared at Obi-Wan, unblinking, and he had the disconcerting feeling that she was seeing a version of him that _he’d_ never yet met.

“We have a ceremony scheduled for after the meal,” she said, obviously changing her words to avoid directly reminding him of who had died. “We trust you will all attend.”

Amidala had warned Master Qui-Gon. She’d obviously disliked him or at least his attitude and behavior, but she’d warned him anyway.

The delicious meal turned to ash in Obi-Wan’s mouth.

“I took the liberty of scheduling the placement tests for your new padawan,” Master Depa said, derailing Obi-Wan’s thoughts before he could get _too_ maudlin and settling a flimisplast on the table. “Master Koon is willing to administrate them all, so Anakin doesn’t have to meet too many more new people at once.”

He stared at her, remembered Quinlan’s advice—but how could he argue with a councilor? His gaze flew to his friend, across and a few places down the table, and he forced it back to Master Depa.

She frowned slightly. “Quinlan?” she called, offering the flimsi.

He nonchalantly Force-pulled it to his hand. Obi-Wan winced. A few of the councilors frowned at Quinlan…but most of noticed that the surrounding Naboo (Human and Gungan) didn’t react, and they turned thoughtful or frowned at _Obi-Wan_.

Depa tossed Quinlan a stylus, and he scribbled something on the flimsi. Then he nudged Aayla and had her deliver it back, demonstrating that he did, in fact, notice the councilors around them even when he didn’t seem to.

“Is something the matter, Masters Jedi?” asked Chancellor Palpatine.

Depa shook her head as she accepted the flimsi from Aayla. “Just a cultural question. Wasn’t sure whom to ask.” She set the flimsi between her and Obi-Wan and met his eye. “I’ll take care of it.”

Obi-Wan took that as permission to glance at the flimsi, and he spotted _‘kriff gossip. here good’_ in Quinlan’s mynock scratch.

Sometimes he seriously wondered how his friend had passed the essay-writing requirements of Jedi schooling, but apparently those four words were enough for Depa to understand that Obi-Wan didn’t want to return to Coruscant yet. Was she a Shadow, too?

“You can ask now,” Chancellor Palpatine said. “We are all Naboo, here.”

Amidala hid her expression with a sip of her beverage—spiked punch?—but that flash of her eyes had been anger, directed at the chancellor. Obi-Wan stared at her, confused. Did she resent him using the invasion as part of his platform to become chancellor, rather than assisting her with the battle? Or was there something that hadn’t happened yet?

Depa checked the room, glanced over the queen. “The royal gowns,” she said easily, though Obi-Wan knew she was speaking off the cuff. “The earlier blue and the current violet look quite similar in shade, and I was curious if the shade itself carried meaning apart from the color.”

“An astute eye, Master Billaba,” the queen said. “Black is the color of solemnity, contrasting the white of celebration. Mourning blue honors death that occurs outside battle. Mourning violet, inside battle.” She glanced to the other Naboo at the table and gave a sly half-smile. “And explaining all this so baldly is generally considered ill taste.”

Anakin hunched a bit but took a breath. “So it’s not really something the Unhoused would know?”

The Human Naboo all froze, and even Amidala blinked at the boy.

“That is an excellent question,” the queen said. “I have no idea. Sabé?”

Alarm spiked in the handmaiden, and she dropped the pitcher of water she was holding. Crystal shattered.

Amidala’s puzzled glance turned to her. “What—“ She closed her eyes a moment and muttered “Dear Shiraya” quietly enough that he only heard it because he was two seats away. “Our apologies for startling you. Please ensure that translation footnotes are added to our public broadcasts henceforth.”

Obi-Wan thought Eirtaé wrote the speeches.

Governor Bibble sputtered. “Y–Your Highness, that is—“

“Governor Bibble, you are Prince of Theed, not King of Naboo. As part of my communication is in my wardrobe and my decisions affect _everyone on the planet_ , providing means for my full message to be understood by all who view it is polite.”

Amidala paused and glanced at the chancellor. “After all, as Master Billaba has brought up, other cultures have their own interpretations for color, and some in the galaxy will be looking at us to learn more about the culture of the new leader of the“—she coughed, sipped her beverage—“of the Republic.”

She coughed some more.

“Your Majesty, are you quite—”

“Merely some punch down the wrong pipe, Chancellor,” she said promptly. “We thank you for your concern.”

Her grip was far too careful on her glass. Obi-Wan cast a quick glance to Quinlan, who gave him a slight shake of the head. _Don’t draw attention to it._

Amidala did _not_ like the new chancellor of the Republic.

Why, then, had she called for the vote of no confidence in Valorum?

Obi-Wan feared to the answer, but at least he would have the time here to figure it out.

* * *

Qui-Gon watched the torch, held by Obi-Wan, as the young man drew a breath and lit the pyre, as tradition demanded, then fell back to stand beside Anakin.

Obi-Wan still had his padawan braid.

Qui-Gon frowned. The Council should have removed that.

“He’s Knighted,” Winama said quietly beside him. “They’re giving him some room to decide who he wants to remove the braid.”

She was perched carefully on one of the stone walls between the pyre and the rest of the circle. Her gaze didn’t waver from whoever she was watching on the opposite side of the pyre. Her granddaughter, Qui-Gon assumed, but…why so intense?

He scowled at her. “And how do _you_ know that?”

“I’m more used to being dead. It’s easier for me to get around.” She glanced to the pyre and to him, then returned her attention across to whoever she was watching. She was poised to flee the funeral in an instant, and he had the sense that she would yank him with her if she did.

“Are you _afraid_?” he asked, startled to realize what he was seeing.

“Terrified,” she answered promptly.

He stared at her. “We’re _dead_.”

“We’re also ghosts. You’ll be safer once your body’s ash, but don’t mistake that for safety.”

Before he could ask for clarification, he heard Anakin ask Obi-Wan, “What will happen to me now?”

They were across the circle, but Qui-Gon found he could hear them easily with just a bit of concentration. Far more easily than he would have if still alive. _So that’s how she does it._

“You’ll be my padawan, if you still want it,” Obi-Wan answered. “I’m going to ask the queen if we can stay here awhile, first, so you can start schooling without the pressures of learning to fit with classmates, too.”

“You want to stay on Naboo?” Anakin sounded both surprised and hopeful.

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, staring at the pyre. “Qui-Gon’s death wasn’t their fault,” he whispered.

No, it was Qui-Gon’s. He’d been warned and ignored it, and he had no one but himself to blame for that.

Mace’s voice drew his attention away from his old padawan and the Chosen One. “There’s no doubt the mysterious warrior was a Sith.”

It was about time they believed him.

“Hmm,” Yoda answered. “Always two, there are. No more, no less. A master, and an apprentice.”

Winama sighed and shook her head.

“But which was destroyed?” Mace asked Yoda, obviously unaware of the ghosts. “The master or the apprentice?”

“You believe there are more than two Sith?” Qui-Gon asked quietly, assuming Winama had reason for her caution.

She snorted—and with a subtle yet swift tug, drew him away to a villa in the middle of a lake. “The Rule of Two only started about a millennium ago. It helped them hide, helped them deceive you Jedi into thinking them gone. They’re coming into the open, now, so what benefit is it to them to keep the rule? The tool has served its purpose. And Sith _lie_.”

He stared at her. “You’re hiding from someone.”

Winama watched him, unimpressed.

“I mean,” he elaborated, “there was another Sith at that funeral.”

She didn’t react a whit, which was possibly an answer in itself, or maybe she just thought him grasping at straws.

Qui-Gon considered how much easier all this was, for her. She could move around easily, even move him. He’d needed her help to even attend his own funeral.

“Teach me to speak to the living,” he said. “I need to warn them.”

Winama’s flat expression didn’t change. “You believe I can teach you this?”

“You’re obviously a witch of some sort.”

She snorted. “Because I’m a female user of the Force who isn’t a Jedi? Hardly. You don’t call female Korun ‘witches’, do you?”

He blinked. “My apologies. What do you call yourself?”

“I’m a shaman of the Whills.”

The _Whills_? “The Ancient Order of the Whills was lost to history.”

“ _Lost_?” She stared at him in disbelief. “They have a holy city on Jedha.” 

* * *

Quinlan hated funerals. People said they were to honor the dead—or, maybe, to support the family and friends left behind—but all they did was give assholes a platform to strengthen the lie that they were such lovely, caring people. _Show up for some not-party that lets you claim you helped the mourners, then you can protest how supportive you’ve been when they still need help, maybe even scold them for not moving on with their lives._

It was quite possible that he still resented the creche masters’ response to his own parents’ murder—but then, Tholme hadn’t taken him because he’d thought the Order good for traumatized children. He’d stolen Quinlan because his parents had wanted him to be a Jedi and…

His head throbbed from brandy—and it _was_ the brandy, not a memory wanting to wriggle free of where he’d stuffed it. Couldn’t be a memory. He didn’t remember the weeks surrounding his arrival at the Temple, didn’t remember waking up others in the creche with his screaming in the months that followed.

Usually didn’t remember.

Would _not_ be letting himself remember that now, thank you very much.

He focused on the stillness of the night, turning all his attention to finding the thrum of the power plant beneath his feet, the scent of winter on the cusp of spring, the cadence of his off-balance footsteps…

He was probably more drunk than he thought. Penalty of making sure there wasn’t enough brandy left for Obi-Wan to hurt himself with if depression got the better of him.

But Obi-Wan was sleeping, as was Anakin, and now it was time for Quinlan to faceplant in his own room until morning made him rue being the kriffing babysitter. (Somebody had to do it.)

The door opened easily, revealing the small blond seated on the couch, shoulders hunched.

_What the frip?_

Quinlan stopped just through the door, wobbling a little as he tried to remember any commitments he might’ve made and forgotten. Nope. Not that he would have arranged to meet her at the witching hour, anyway. His reputation would wreck hers.

Handmaiden Frizmar jumped to her feet, eyes wide and face lax with blatant fear, and paced and hopped like an informant at risk of being murdered.

 _Kriff._ He smacked the door controls to shut it before anyone could see or hear whatever the handmaiden had to share.

“He asked after my father!” she blurted. “The _first_ thing he does, after seeing me, is–is not to ask after the queen, or me, or maybe how I feel about the invasion. No. It’s to ask after _my father_. My father, who somehow knew about that holocron and demanded it of me.

“Holocron—is that what those are called? I don’t know. I don’t even know where I learned that word or when or how I recognized it or—“

“You’re a receptive telepath,” Quinlan cut in, hoping to interrupt the stream of ever-increasing panic before she started hyperventilating.

Eirtaé stopped mid-step and stared at him.

“I’m pretty sure the queen’s projective. But those descriptors indicate primary ability and not… Kriff, I can’t think straight enough to translate that shit out of Jedi-ese, right now. Ask me tomorrow.”

Eirtaé dug her fingers in her hair near the roots and pulled, hard enough that it had to hurt, even while it spread out the pressure to keep from pulling out any clumps or leaving any visible sign behind besides a weakening of the roots.

Self-harm, coping mechanism for the ages.

He forced his coordination to be steady-ish as he approached her, called on the Force to support him further as he gently tapped her fingers and untangled them from her hair. “ _Who_ , Handmaiden? You’ve snuck into my room in the middle of the night, risking trouble for us both, and all I’m getting is panic over someone being more concerned about your dad than he is you.”

Confusion skittered over her face, then realization, and she blushed—no, _flushed_. That was anger glittering in her eyes.

“I may not be Coruscant legal, Master Jedi, but I _have_ earned all the rights and responsibilities of an adult under the law of Naboo. That includes the right to decide if I _care_ if gossip ends up assuming I let a Jedi…”

The expression on her face was very much Luminara, when she was puzzling through a euphemism. Dear Force, he hoped Eirtaé at least had a clue about the anatomy. The creche masters had been most displeased with him for educating his friends before the official lesson, and the youngest of them had been Skywalker’s age. Er, almost.

Quinlan shook his head, rubbed his eyes. “Not what I meant, Frizmar, but fine. Let’s go there. Good reputations take years to build and only a whisper to destroy, so don’t start anything you’re not willing to live with for the rest of your life.”

“Some people will cite years-old one-time hints as if they are incontrovertible proof of current patterns? I had _no_ idea.”

He winced. Put that way, she did have a clue. She’d grown up with it. “Look, I’ve been playing this game since I was younger than you. I just don’t want to see you end up as lonely as…”

Wow. He _was_ drunk.

She frowned and studied him, so she’d caught that slip. Kriff.

All right, then. If he was going to be honest: “It’s safer for my contacts if everyone assumes we’re just fripping, so I don’t regret my reputation, but there are consequences to having it. There is kriffing good reason this mission is not my normal purview.”

And the four-credit words, courtesy of Jedi education, illustrated one reason he usually couldn’t afford to genuinely relax.

“Should I kiss your cheek?” she asked clinically, with a twitch of disgust that didn’t color her voice. “Leave some of my lipstick?”

He was drunk enough to flinch. “Frizmar—“

“I _know_ , Vos. And maybe I’ll end up regretting this, but…”

Her hands were shaking as she twisted her skirt.

Frizmar was young, but she wouldn’t have survived her father if she hadn’t learned how to minimize her tells. For her to be this blatant meant she trusted him.

Also meant she was terrified.

She drew a deep, bracing breath, let it out slowly, and her hands settled. “All right. How did my father know about the holocron, and why was _he_ the first person that the chancellor asked me about?”

Quinlan massaged his eyes, wishing he were at least sober or rested. One of the two. “Maybe your father contacted the chancellor to complain. I assume they’re friends.“

Eirtaé paused, so she hadn’t thought of that. “Possible, but…” She chewed the insides of her lips. “Okay, who benefitted from the invasion—not the blockade, but the _invasion_ —and would have no matter how it panned out?”

Hallmark of an excellent con was that the situation itself caused the primary desired result, regardless the resolution. It was a big galaxy, with a lot of information still to sift through, but the only name coming to mind was…

But no, surely _Palpatine_ couldn’t—

A chill ran down his spine. Assuming _anyone_ was necessarily sincere was tantamount to suicide, in his line of work, and Quinlan had far too much experience to fall into that trap.

“And is it not suspicious,” Eirtaé said through grit teeth, “that _everyone_ ’s impulse is to dismiss that as impossible?”

Quinlan stared, appalled. She was right.

She was so kriffing right.

He was too drunk for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the end of _The Ice of Angels’ Tears_! Pick up in _The Snow of Angels’ Fear_.
> 
> * * *
> 
> According to Legends!canon, the Kiffar have their own Force traditions, and Quinlan is from the ruling clan and would’ve been high up in the succession. Tholme was a Jedi Watchman keeping an eye on the planet, and he noticed his friend’s kid (Quinlan) was Jedi material. The parents were elated, but an aunt schemed so the Vos clan only allowed Quin’s training if he stayed home. Okay, said Tholme.
> 
> Then Quin’s parents were murdered under suspicious circumstances, and Quin's great-aunt outright tortured him and gained control of the clan. Tholme essentially kidnapped him, with reason.
> 
> Thus Coruscant accepted an older-than-usual Initiate in Obi-Wan’s generation, which was established in the Jedi Apprentice books as having some bullies. (I think it’s probably safe to assume every generation/class had at least one.)
> 
> It’s unclear when, precisely, Tholme took Quinlan as Padawan. However, he was teaching Quinlan even before he was an Initiate, the Council didn’t meddle with the the pairing, and Tholme was taking Quinlan on dangerous missions even at Anakin’s age. I therefore assume Quinlan effectively skipped the Initiate stage of training, possibly but not necessarily unofficially.
> 
> Now, why would the Council allow this sort of scenario?
> 
> • Fit. Tholme would be _the_ most qualified person to deal with Quinlan’s psychometry, its risks, and its effects. He had years of experience as a healer and of dealing with Kiffar Guardians, so he could handle all the issues involved: philosophical, psychological, and physiological.
> 
> • Tact. Tholme seems to have been good at saying the right thing and finding reasonable-for-Jedi justifications for what he couldn’t hide…and the fact that Aayla was a senior master at 29 (in Episode III) suggests he successfully hid a lot. (At least her precedent of freeing an imprisoned Darksider, and probably the time she tried to kill him.)
> 
> • Pity. Some might not have wanted to separate the two, for the poor kid had been through enough shit already—shit that meant he already understood why attachments were dangerous.
> 
> • Fear. Tholme is a healer who has intentionally tracked down assassins to learn their techniques. Consider what that means he can do if you piss him off, whether or not you have a skeleton in your closet.
> 
> • External politics. Tholme arguably stole Quinlan from clan Vos. With reason, but there’s a “hot potato!” element. As things stand, if they need to blame someone for Quinlan ending up a Jedi, Tholme’s the only one responsible and they have plausible deniability. (“He didn’t have permission to take the boy? O.o We had no idea!”)
> 
> • Internal politics. Perhaps they owe a favor or want to be owed a favor, whether by Tholme or by his allies. (He hangs out with Windu’s Master.)
> 
> • Pragmatism. Psychometry would be extremely useful in intelligence gathering, and youth isn’t exactly a detriment in that. (Kids are often overlooked or assumed to be stupid.) Quinlan even has the intelligence and personality to suit it. And seriously, what’s he gonna touch that’s worse than experiencing his mother’s brutal murder by psychos that sucked out her brain juice?
> 
> If you look on the math on some other folks, like Depa, he wasn’t the only special case, but Quin was probably even younger than most. He could not have been older than 19 when he took his Padawan, so he was Knighted at least that young. Taking a Padawan immediately after Knighting, though, seems uncommon and something worthy of gossip, so most likely, he was Knighted a few years before that.
> 
> Seems probable that he was Knighted at 16 (after 10 years as Tholme’s apprentice) and then took a Padawan when he was 18.
> 
> All this stuff factors in to how I’m interpreting and extrapolating Quinlan’s approach to life and teaching, prior to losing his memory the first time, but they’re also potential explanations for why other Legends!Jedi gave Quinlan so much leeway, regardless how you interpret him.
> 
> Aayla’s Legends!origins have some similarities to Quinlan’s. (Orphaned sort-of princess. Shitty family. Etc.) The most significant differences are that her uncle was a greedy asshole but he didn’t want her dead, and she entered the creche at 2, so she had opportunity to fit in as a normal Jedi, which would predispose folks to blame her eccentricities on Quinlan.


End file.
